UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


GREEN  FIELDS  AND  RUNNING 
BROOKS 


'Ho!   green  fields  and  running  brooks, 
Knotted  strings  and  fishing  hooks." 

— PROEM. 


From  a  drawing  by  W.  T.  Smedley. 


GREEN  FIELDS  AND 
RUNNING  BROOKS 


BY 
JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 


D2J 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1892,  1898,  by 
JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILBY 


Printed  in  the  United  Statet  of  America 


; 


HO!  green  fields  and  running  brook$f 
Knotted  strings  and  fishing-hooks 
Of  the  truant,  stealing  down 
Weedy  back-ways  of  the  town. 

Where  the  sunshine  overlooks, 
By  green  fields  and  running  brooht, 
All  intruding  guests  of  chance 
With  a  golden  tolerance. 

Cooing  doves,  or  pensive  pair 
Of  picnickers,  straying  there — 
By  green  fields  and  running  brookt, 
Sylvan  shades  and  mossy  nooks  ! 

And — 0  Dreamer  of  the  Days, 
Murmurer  of  roundelays 
All  unsung  of  words  or  books, 
Sing  green  fields  and  running  brooks  I 


CONTENTS 


GREEN  FIELDS  AND  RUNNING  BROOKS 

Ho  !  Green  Fields  and  Running  Brooks  !        ....  2 

A  COUNTRY  PATHWAY 3 

ON  THE  BANKS  o'  DEER  CRICK 9 

A  DITTY  OP  No  TONE .  11 

A  WATER-COLOR 13 

THE  CYCLONE 14 

WHERE-AWAY 16 

THE  HOME-GOING 18 

How  JOHN  QUIT  THE  FARM 20 

NORTH  AND  SOUTH 29 

THE  IRON  HORSE 31 

His  MOTHER'S  WAY 34 

JAP  MILLER 35 

A  SOUTHERN  SINGER 38 

A  DREAM  OP  AUTUMN 40 

TOM  VAN  ARDEN        ........43 

JUST  TO  BE  GOOD 47 

HOME  AT  NIGHT 48 

vii 


CONTENTS 

;PAG» 
THE  HOOSIER  FOLK-CHILD  ,       .       .    49 

JACK  THE  GIANT-KILLER 53 

WHILE  THE  MUSICIAN  PLATED 55 

AUGUST .    57 

To  HEAR  HER  SING    ........    60 

BEING  HIS  MOTHER      .  62 

JUNE  AT  WOODRUFF    ........    63 

FARMER  WHEPPLE  —  BACHELOR 66 

DAWN,  NOON  AND  DEWFALL .74 

NESSMUK 75 

As  MY  UNCLE  UST  TO  SAT 76 

THE  SINGER 78 

A  FULL  HARVEST        ........    79 

BLIND 80 

RIGHT  HERE  AT  HOME 89 

THE  LITTLE  FAT  DOCTOR 91 

THE  SHOEMAKER         ........    93 

THE  OLD  RETIRED  SEA-CAPTAIN 95 

ROBERT  BURNS  WILSON 97 

To  THE  SERENADER 98 

THE  WIFE-BLESSED 100 

SISTER  JONES'S  CONFESSION 102 

THE  CURSE  OF  THE  WANDERING  FOOT         ....  103 

A  MONUMENT  FOR  THE  SOLDIERS 105 

THE  RIVAL 107 

IRY  AND  BILLY  AND  Jo 108 

A  WRAITH  OF  SUMMER-TIME 110 

HER  BEAUTIFUL  EYES        .       .       .       .       .       .       .112 

DOT  LEEDLE  BOY       ........  114 

viii 


CONTENTS 

PAQI 

DONN  PlATT  OF  MAC-0-CHEB  ....*.  120 
CHAIRLEY  BURKE'S  IN  TOWN  .,,...  123 
THE  QUIET  LODGER  .  ,  .  ,  .  126 

THE  WATCHES  OF  THE  NIGHT      »       ,       «       •  130 

His  VIGIL 132 

THE  PLAINT  HUMAN    ..,...,,  133 
BY  ANY  OTHER  NAME         .......  134 

To  AN  IMPORTUNATE  GHOST  .  .  ,  ,  ,  .  136 
THE  QUARREL  ,  .  .  ,  •.  ,  i  .  137 
THE  OLD  YEAR  AND  THE  NEW  ......  139 

THE  HEREAFTER 141 

JOHN  BROWN •       •       •       •  142 

A  CUP  OF  TEA   .       .       .       .       c       .       .       .       .143 

JUDITH •       »       «  145 

THE  ARTEMUS  OF  MICHIGAN  .  .  t  .  ,  ,  147 
THE  HOODOO  .  ....  ;  ...  149 
THE  RIVALS  ;  OR,  THE  SHOWMAN'S  RUSE  .  .  .  150 

WHAT  CHRIS'MAS  FETCHED  THE  WIGGINSES  .       .  .  154 

Go,  WINTER!      .       .       .       .       .       .       .       ,       .169 

ELIZABETH ...-,.  170 

SLEEP  .  .  .  .  ,  .  .  .  «  .172 
DAN  PAINE  .  .  -  .  .  .  .  ,  .  .173 
OLD  WINTERS  ON  THE  FARM  .  .  ,  .  .  175 

AT  UTTER  LOAF 176 

A  LOUNGER        ....  ....  178 

A  SONG  OF  LONG  AGO        .......  179 

THE  CHANT  OF  THE  CROSS-BEARING  CHILD  ....  181 

THANKSGIVING    .........  184 

AUTUMN      ......  .       .         186 

iz 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  TWINS 191 

BEDOUIN 193 

TUGG  MARTIN 194 

LET  Us  FORGET  .........  199 

JOHN  ALDEN  AND  PERCILLY 200 

REACH  YOUR  HAND  TO  ME  .       .       .       .       .       .       .  204 

THE  ROSE 206 

MY  FRIEND 208 

SUSPENSE 209 

THE  PASSING  OP  A  HEART 210 

BY  HER  WHITE  BED 211 

NEVER  TALK  BACK 212 

MR.  WHAT'S-HIS-NAMB        . 213 

WHEN  AGE  COMES  ON       .......  216 

ENVOY .  .217 


A  COUNTRY  PATHWAY 

I  COME  upon  it  suddenly,  alone— 
A  little  pathway  winding  in  the  weeds 

That  fringe  the  roadside;  and  with  dreams  my  own, 
I  wander  as  it  leads. 

Full  wistfully  along  the  slender  way, 
Through  summer  tan  of  freckled  shade  and  shine, 

I  take  the  path  that  leads  me  as  it  may- 
Its  every  choice  is  mine. 

A  chipmunk,  or  a  sudden-whirring  quail, 

Is  startled  by  my  step  as  on  I  fare— 
A  garter-snake  across  the  dusty  trail 

Glances  and— is  not  there. 

Above  the  arching  jimson-weeds  flare  twos 
And  twos  of  sallow-yellow  butterflies, 
3 


A  COUNTRY   PATHWAY 

Like  blooms  of  lorn  primroses  blowing  loose 
When  autumn  winds  arise. 

The  trail  dips— dwindles— broadens  then,  and  lifts 
Itself  astride  a  cross-road  dubiously, 

And,  from  the  fennel  marge  beyond  it,  drifts 
Still  onward,  beckoning  me. 

And  though  it  needs  must  lure  me  mile  on  mile 
Out  of.  the  public  highway,  still  I  go, 

My  thoughts,  far  in  advance  in  Indian  file, 
Allure  me  even  so. 

Why,  I  am  as  a  long-lost  boy  that  went 
At  dusk  to  bring  the  cattle  to  the  bars, 

And  was  not  found  again,  though  Heaven  lent 
His  mother  all  the  stars 

With  which  to  seek  him  through  that  awful  night. 

0  years  of  nights  as  vain!— Stars  never  rise 
But  well  might  miss  their  glitter  in  the  light 

Of  tears  in  mother-eyes! 

So— on,  with  quickened  breaths,  I  follow  still — 

My  avant-courier  must  be  obeyed! 
Thus  am  I  led,  and  thus  the  path,  at  will, 

Invites  me  to  invade 

4 


A   COUNTRY   PATHWAY 

A  meadow's  precincts,  where  my  daring  guide 
Clambers  the  steps  of  an  old-fashioned  stile, 

And  stumbles  down  again,  the  other  side, 
To  gambol  there  awhile 

In  pranks  of  hide-and-seek,  as  on  ahead 
I  see  it  running,  while  the  clover-stalks 

Shake  rosy  fists  at  me,  as  though  they  said — 
"  You  dog  our  country  walks 

"And  mutilate  us  with  your  walking-stick!— 
We  will  not  suffer  tamely  what  you  do, 

And  warn  you  at  your  peril,  — for  we'll  sic 
Our  bumblebees  on  you!" 

But  I  smile  back,  in  airy  nonchalance,— 
The  more  determined  on  my  wayward  quest, 

As  some  bright  memory  a  moment  dawns 
A  morning  in  my  breast— 

Sending  a  thrill  that  hurries  me  along 
In  faulty  similes  of  childish  skips, 

Enthused  with  lithe  contortions  of  a  song 
Performing  on  my  lips. 

In  wild  meanderings  o'er  pasture  wealth— 
Erratic  wanderings  through  dead'ning  lands- 
5 


A  COUNTRY   PATHWAY 

Where  sly  old  brambles,  plucking  me  by  stealth, 
Put  berries  in  my  hands: 

Or  the  path  climbs  a  bowlder— wades  a  slough— 
Or,  rollicking  through  buttercups  and  flags, 

Goes  gayly  dancing  o'er  a  deep  bayou 
On  old  tree-trunks  and  snags: 

Or,  at  the  creek,  leads  o'er  a  limpid  pool 
Upon  a  bridge  the  stream  itself  has  made, 

With  some  Spring-freshet  for  the  mighty  tool 
That  its  foundation  laid. 

I  pause  a  moment  here  to  bend  and  muse, 
With  dreamy  eyes,  on  my  reflection,  where 

A  boat-backed  bug  drifts  on  a  helpless  cruise, 
Or  wildly  oars  the  air, 

As,  dimly  seen,  the  pirate  of  the  brook— 
The  pike,  whose  jaunty  hulk  denotes  his  speed- 

Swings  pivoting  about,  with  wary  look 
Of  low  and  cunning  greed. 

Till,  filled  with  other  thought,  I  turn  again 
To  where  the  pathway  enters  in  a  realm 

Of  lordly  woodland,  under  sovereign  reign 
Of  towering  oak  and  elm. 
6 


A  COUNTRY   PATHWAY 

A  puritanic  quiet  here  reviles 

The  almost  whispered  warble  from  the  hedge^ 
And  takes  a  locust's  rasping  voice  and  files 

The  silence  to  an  edge. 

In  such  a  solitude  my  sombre  way 
Strays  like  a  misanthrope  within  a  gloom 

Of  his  own  shadows— till  the  perfect  day 
Bursts  into  sudden  bloom, 

And  crowns  a  long,  declining  stretch  of  space, 
Where  King  Corn's  armies  lie  with  flags  unfurled, 

And  where  the  valley's  dint  in  Nature's  face 
Dimples  a  smiling  world. 

And  lo!  through  mists  that  may  not  be  dispelled, 
I  see  an  old  farm  homestead,  as  in  dreams, 

Where,  like  a  gem  in  costly  setting  held, 
The  old  log  cabin  gleams. 


0  darling  Pathway!  lead  me  bravely  on 
Adown  your  valley-way,  and  run  before 

Among  the  roses  crowding  up  the  lawn 
And  thronging  at  the  door,— 

7 


And  carry  up  the  echo  there  that  shall 
Arouse  the  drowsy  dog,  that  he  may  bay 

The  household  out  to  greet  the  prodigal 
That  wanders  home  to-day. 


ON  THE  BANKS  O'  DEER  CRICK 

ON  the  banks  o'  Deer  Crick !    There's  the  place  f er  me !— 
Worter  slidin'  past  ye  jes  as  clair  as  it  kin  be:— 
See  yer  shadder  in  it,  and  the  shadder  o'  the  sky, 
And  the  shadder  o'  the  buzzard  as  he  goes  a-lazin'  by; 
Shadder  o'  the  pizen-vines,  and  shadder  o'  the  trees— 
And  I  purt'-nigh  said  the  shadder  o'  the  sunshine  and 

the  breeze! 

Well!— I  never  seen  the  ocean  ner  I  never  seen  the  sea.— 
On  the  banks  o'  Deer  Crick's  grand  enough  fer  me! 

On  the  banks  o'  Deer  Crick— miPd  er  two  from  town— 
'Long  up  where  the  mill-race  comes  a-loafin'  down,— 
Like  to  git  up  in  there— 'mongst  the  sycamores— 
And  watch  the  worter  at  the  dam,  a-frothin'  as  she 

pours: 

Crawl  out  on  some  old  log,  with  my  hook  and  line, 
Where  the  fish  is  jes  so  thick  you  kin  see  'em  shine 

9 


ON  THE   BANKS  O'   DEER  CRICK 

As  they  flicker  round  yer  bait,  coaxin'  you  to  jerk, 
Tel  yer  tired  ketchin'  of  'em,  mighty  nigh,  as  work  ! 

On  the  banks  o'  Deer  Crick!— Allus  my  delight 
Jes  to  be  around  there— take  it  day  er  night!— 
Watch  the  snipes  and  killdees  foolin'  half  the  day— 
Er  these-'ere  little  worter-bugs  skootin'  everVay!— 
Snake-feeders  glancin'  round,  er  dartin'  out  o'  sight; 
And  dewfall,  and  bullfrogs,  and  lightnin'-bugs  at 

night— 

Stars  up  through  the  tree-tops— er  in  the  crick  below,— 
And  smell  o'  mussrat  through  the  dark  clean  from  the 
old  b'y-o! 

Er  take  a  tromp,  some  Sund'y,  say,  'way  up  to 

"Johnson's  Hole," 

And  find  where  he's  had  a  fire,  and  hid  his  fishin'-pole: 
Have  yer  "  dog-leg  "  with  ye,  and  yer  pipe  and  "  cut- 

and-dry  "— 

Pocketful  o'  corn-bread,  and  slug  er  two  o'  rye.  .  .  . 
Soak  yer  hide  in  sunshine  and  waller  in  the  shade— 
Lake  the  Good  Book  tells  us— "where  there're  none  to 

make  afraid!" 

Well!— I  never  seen  the  ocean  ner  I  never  seen  the  sea.— 
On  the  banks  o'  Deer  Crick's  grand  enough  fer  me! 

10 


A  DITTY  OF  NO  TONE- 

Piped  to  the  Spirit  of  John  Keats 


WOULD  that  my  lips  might  pour  out  in  thy  praise 

A  fitting  melody— an  air  sublime,— 
A  song  sun-washed  and  draped  in  dreamy  haze— 

The  floss  and  velvet  of  luxurious  rhyme: 
A  lay  wrought  of  warm  languors,  and  o'er-brimmed 
With  balminess,  and  fragrance  of  wild  flowers 
Such  as  the  droning  bee  ne'er  wearies  of — 
Such  thoughts  as  might  be  hymned 
To  thee  from  this  midsummer  land  of  ours 
Through  shower  and  sunshine,  blent  for  very 
love. 


Deep  silences  in  woody  aisles  wherethrough 
Cool  paths  go  loitering,  and  where  the  trill 

Of  best-remembered  birds  hath  something  new 
In  cadence  for  the  hearing— lingering  still 
11 


A   DITTY  OF  NO  TONE 

Through  all  the  open  day  that  lies  beyond; 
Reaches  of  pasture-lands,  vine-wreathen  oaks, 

Majestic  still  in  pathos  of  decay;— 
The  road— the  wayside  pond 
Wherein  the  dragon-fly  an  instant  soaks 
His  filmy  wing-tips  ere  he  flits  away. 

m 

And  I  would  pluck  from  out  the  dank,  rich  mould, 

Thick-shaded  from  the  sun  of  noon,  the  long 
Lithe  stalks  of  barley,  topped  with  ruddy  gold, 

And  braid  them  in  the  meshes  of  my  song; 
And  with  them  I  would  tangle  wheat  and  rye, 

And  wisps  of  greenest  grass  the  katydid 

E'er  crept  beneath  the  blades  of,  sulkily, 
As  harvest-hands  went  by; 

And  weave  of  all,  as  wildest  fancy  bid, 
A  crown  of  mingled  song  and  bloom  for  thee. 


12 


A  WATER-COLOR 

Low  hidden  in  among  the  forest-trees 

An  artist's  tilted  easel,  ankle-deep 
In  tousled  ferns  and  mosses,  and  in  these 
A  fluffy  water-spaniel,  half  asleep 
Beside  a  sketch-book  and  a  fallen  hat— 
A  little  wicker  flask  tossed  into  that. 

A  sense  of  utter  carelessness  and  grace 

Of  pure  abandon  in  the  slumb'rous  scene,— 
As  if  the  June,  all  hoydenish  of  face, 
Had  romped  herself  to  sleep  there  on  the  green, 
And  brink  and  sagging  bridge  and  sliding 

stream 
Were  just  romantic  parcels  of  her  dream. 


13 


THE  CYCLONE 

So  lone  I  stood,  the  very  trees  seemed  drawn 

In  conference  with  themselves.— Intense— intense 

Seemed  everything;— the  summer  splendor  on 
The  sight, — magnificence ! 

A  babe's  life  might  not  lighter  fail  and  die 
Than  failed  the  sunlight.— Though  the  hour  was 
noon, 

The  palm  of  midnight  might  not  lighter  lie 
Upon  the  brow  of  June. 

With  eyes  upraised,  I  saw  the  underwings 
Of  swallows— gone  the  instant  afterward — 

While  from  the  elms  there  came  strange  twitterings, 
Stilled  scarce  ere  they  were  heard. 

The  river  seemed  to  shiver;  and,  far  down 
Its  darkened  length,  I  saw  the  sycamores 

Lean  inward  closer,  under  the  vast  frown 
That  weighed  above  the  shores. 
14 


THE  CYCLONE       , 

Then  was  a  roar,  born  of  some  awful  burst!  .  .  . 

And  one  lay,  shrieking,  chattering,  in  my  path- 
Flung— he  or  I— out  of  some  space  accurst 

As  of  Jehovah's  wrath: 

Nor  barely  had  he  wreaked  his  latest  prayer, 
Ere  back  the  noon  flashed  o'er  the  ruin  done, 

And,  o'er  uprooted  forests  tousled  there, 
The  birds  sang  in  the  sun. 


IB 


WHERE-AWAY 

V 

0  THE  Lands  of  Where-  A  way! 

Tell  us—  tell  us—  where  are  they? 
Through  the  darkness  and  the  dawn 
We  have  journeyed  on  and  on— 
From  the  cradle  to  the  cross— 
From  possession  unto  loss.— 
Seeking  still,  from  day  to  day, 
For  the  Lands  of  Where-Away. 


When  our  baby-feet  were  first 
Planted  where  the  daisies  burst, 
And  the  greenest  grasses  grew 
In  the  fields  we  wandered  through,— 
On,  with  childish  discontent, 
Ever  on  and  on  we  went, 
Hoping  still  to  pass,  some  day, 
O'er  the  verge  of  Where-Away. 
\6 


WHERE-AWAY 

Roses  laid  their  velvet  lips 
On  our  own,  with  fragrant  sips; 
But  their  kisses  held  us  not, 
All  their  sweetness  we  forgot; — 
Though  the  brambles  in  our  track 
Plucked  at  us  to  hold  us  back— 
"  Just  ahead,"  we  used  to  say, 
"  Lie  the  Lands  of  Where-Away." 

Children  at  the  pasture-bars, 
Through  the  dusk,  like  glimmering  stars, 
Waved  their  hands  that  we  should  bide 
With  them  over  eventide: 
Down  the  dark  their  voices  failed 
Falteringly,  as  they  hailed, 
And  died  into  yesterday- 
Night  ahead  and— Where- A  way? 

Twining  arms  about  us  thrown— 
Warm  caresses,  all  our  own, 
Can  but  stay  us  for  a  spell- 
Love  hath  little  new  to  tell 
To  the  soul  in  need  supreme, 
Aching  ever  with  the  dream 
Of  the  endless  bliss  it  may 
Find  in  Lands  of  Where- Away! 
17 


THE   HOME-GOING 

WE  must  get  home— for  we  have  been  away 
So  long,  it  seems  forever  and  a  day! 
And  0  so  very  homesick  we  have  grown, 
The  laughter  of  the  world  is  like  a  moan 
In  our  tired  hearing,  and  its  songs  as  vain,— 
We  must  get  home— we  must  get  home  again! 

We  must  get  home:  It  hurts  so,  staying  here, 
Where  fond  hearts  must  be  wept  out  tear  by  tear, 
And  where  to  wear  wet  lashes  means,  at  best, 
When  most  our  lack,  the  least  our  hope  of  rest- 
When  most  our  need  of  joy,  the  more  our  pain— 
We  must  get  home— we  must  get  home  again! 

We  must  get  home:  All  is  so  quiet  there: 
The  touch  of  loving  hands  on  brow  and  hair- 
Dim  rooms,  wherein  the  sunshine  is  made  mild— 
The  lost  love  of  the  mother  and  the  child 
18 


THE   HOME-GOING 

Restored  in  restful  lullabies  of  rain.— 

We  must  get  home— we  must  get  home  again! 

We  must  get  home,  where,  as  we  nod  and  drowse, 
Time  humors  us  and  tiptoes  through  the  house, 
And  loves  us  best  when  sleeping  baby-wise, 
With  dreams— not  tear-drops— brimming  our 

clenched  eyes, — 
Pure  dreams  that  know  nor  taint  nor  earthly 

stain— 
We  must  get  home— we  must  get  home  again! 

We  must  get  home;  and,  unremembering  there 
All  gain  of  all  ambitions  otherwhere, 
Rest— from  the  feverish  victory,  and  the  crown 
Of  conquest  whose  waste  glory  weighs  us  down.— 
Fame's  fairest  gifts  we  toss  back  with  disdain — 
We  must  get  home— we  must  get  home  again! 


19 


HOW  JOHN  QUIT  THE   FARM 

NOBODY  on  the  old  farm  here  but  Mother,  me  and  John, 
Except,  of  course,  the  extry  he'p  when  harvest-time 

come  on, — 

And  then,  I  want  to  say  to  you,  we  needed  he'p  about, 
As  you'd  admit,  ef  you'd  a-seen  the  way  the  crops 
turned  out! 

A  better  quarter-section  ner  a  richer  soil  warn't  found 
Than  this-here  old-home  place  o'  ourn  fer  fifty  miles 

around!— 
The  house  was  small— but  plenty-big  we  found  it  from 

the  day 
That  John— our  only  livin'  son— packed  up  and  went 

away. 

You  see,  we  tuk  sich  pride  in  John— his  mother  more'n 

me— 
That's  natchurur;  but  both  of  us  was  proud  as  proud 

could  be; 

20 


HOW  JOHN   QUIT  THE  FARM 

Fer  the  boy,  from  a  little  chap,  was  most  oncommon 

bright, 
And  seemed  in  work  as  well  as  play  to  take  the  same 

delight. 

He  allus  went  a-whistlin'  round  the  place,  as  glad  at 

heart 

As  robins  up  at  five  o'clock  to  git  an  airly  start; 
And  many  a  time  'fore  daylight  Mother's  waked  me  up 

to  say— 
"Jest  listen,  David!— listen!— Johnny's  beat  the  birds 

to-day!" 

High-sperited  from  boyhood,  with  a  most  inquirin' 

turn,— 
He  wanted  to  learn  everything  on  earth  they  was  to 

learn: 
He'd  ast  more  plaguy  questions  in  a  mortal-minute 

here 
Than  his  grandpap  in  Paradise  could  answer  in  a  year! 

And  read !  Vy,  his  own  mother  learnt  him  how  to  read 

and  spell; 
And  "The  Childern  of  the  Abbey  "— Vy,  he  knowed  that 

book  as  well 

21 


HOW  JOHN   QUIT  THE   FARM 

At  fifteen  as  his  parents!— and  "The  Pilgrim's  Prog 
ress,"  too— 

Jest  knuckled  down,  the  shaver  did,  and  read  'em 
through  and  through! 

At  eighteen,  Mother  'lowed  the  boy  must  have  a  better 

chance— 

That  we  ort  to  educate  him,  under  any  circumstance; 
And  John  he  j'ined  his  mother,  and  they  ding-donged 

and  kep'  on, 
Tel  I  sent  him  off  to  school  in  town,  half  glad  that  he 

was  gone. 

But— I  missed  him— w'y,  of  course  I  did!— The  Fall  and 

Winter  through 

I  never  built  the  kitchen-fire,  er  split  a  stick  in  two, 
Er  fed  the  stock,  er  butchered,  er  swung  up  a  gambrel- 

pin, 
But  what  I  thought  o'  John,  and  wished  that  he  was 

home  ag'in. 

He'd  come,  sometimes— on  Sund'ys  most— and  stay  the 

Sund'y  out; 
And  on  Thanksgivin'-Day  he  'peared  to  like  to  be 

about: 

22 


HOW  JOHN   QUIT  THE  FARM      . 

But  a  change  was  workin'  on  him— he  was  stiller  than 

before, 
And  didn't  joke,  ner  laugh,  ner  sing  and  whistle  any 

more. 

And  his  talk  was  all  so  proper;  and  I  noticed,  with  a  sigh, 
He  was  tryin'  to  raise  side-whiskers,  and  had  on  a 

striped  tie, 
And  a  standin'-collar,  ironed  up  as  stiff  and  slick  as 

bone; 
And  a  breast-pin,  and  a  watch  and  chain  and  plug-hat 

of  his  own. 

But  when  Spring-weather  opened  out,  and  John  was  to 

come  home 
And  he'p  me  through  the  season,  I  was  glad  to  see  him 

come; 
But  my  happiness,  that  evening,  with  the  settin'  sun 

went  down, 
When  he  bragged  of  "  a  position  "  that  was  offered  him 

in  town. 

"But,"  says  I,  "you'll  not  accept  it?"   "  W'y,  of  course 

I  will,"  says  he.— 
"  This  drudgin'  on  a  farm,"  he  says,  "  is  not  the  life  fer 

me; 

23 


HOW  JOHN   QUIT  THE   FARM 

Tve  set  my  stakes  up  higher,"  he  continued,  light  and 

gay. 

"  And  town's  the  place  f er  me,  and  I'm  a-goin'  right 
away!" 

And  go  he  did!— his  mother  clingin'  to  him  at  the  gate, 

A-pleadin'  and  a-cryin';  but  it  hadn't  any  weight. 

I  was  tranquiller,  and  told  her  'twarn't  no  use  to  worry 

so, 
And  enclasped  her  arms  from  round  his  neck  round 

mine— and  let  him  go! 

I  felt  a  little  bitter  feelin'  foolin'  round  about 

The  aidges  of  my  conscience;  but  I  didn't  let  it  out; — 

I  simply  retch  out,  trimbly-like,  and  tuk  the  boy's 

hand, 
And  though  I  didn't  say  a  word,  I  knowed  he'd 

understand. 

And— well!— sence  then  the  old  home  here  was  mighty 

lonesome,  shore! 

With  me  a-workin'  in  the  field,  and  Mother  at  the  door, 
Her  face  ferever  to'rds  the  town,  and  fadin'  more  and 

more— 

Her  only  son  nine  miles  away,  a-clerkin'  in  a  store! 

24 


HOW  JOHN   QUIT  THE  FARM 

The  weeks  and  months  dragged  by  us;  and  sometimes 

the  boy  would  write 

A  letter  to  his  mother,  sayin'  that  his  work  was  light, 
And  not  to  feel  oneasy  about  his  health  a  bit- 
Though  his  business  was  confinin',  he  was  gittin'  used 

to  it. 

And  sometimes  he  would  write  and  ast  how  /  was 

gittin'  on, 
And  ef  I  had  to  pay  out  much  fer  he'p  sence  he  was 

gone; 
And  how  the  hogs  was  doin',  and  the  balance  of  the 

stock, 
And  talk  on  fer  a  page  er  two  jest  like  he  used  to  talk. 

And  he  wrote,  along  'fore  harvest,  that  he  guessed  he 

would  git  home, 
Fer  business  would,  of  course,  be  dull  in  town.— But 

didn't  come:— 

We  got  a  postal  later,  sayin'  when  they  had  no  trade 
They  filled  the  time  "  invoicin'  goods,"  and  that  was 

why  he  stayed. 

And  then  he  quit  a-writin'  altogether:  Not  a  word — 
Exceptin'  what  the  neighbors  brung  who'd  been  to 
town  and  heard 

25 


HOW  JOHN   QUIT  THE   FARM 

What  store  John  was  clerkin'  in,  and  went  round  to 

inquire 
If  they  could  buy  their  goods  there  less  and  sell  their 

produce  higher. 

And  so  the  Summer  faded  out,  and  Autumn  wore  away, 
And  a  keener  Winter  never  fetched  around  Thanks- 

givin'-Day! 
The  night  before  that  day  of  thanks  I'll  never  quite 

fergit, 
The  wind  a-howlin'  round  the  house— it  makes  me 

creepy  yit! 

And  there  set  me  and  Mother— me  a-twistin'  at  the 

prongs 
Of  a  green  scrub-ellum  f  orestick  with  a  vicious  pair  of 

tongs, 

And  Mother  sayin',  "  David  !  David  !  "  in  a'  undertone, 
As  though  she  thought  that  I  was  thinkin'  bad-words 

unbeknown. 

"  I've  dressed  the  turkey,  David,  fer  to-morrow,"  Mother 

said, 
A-tryin'  to  wedge  some  pleasant  subject  in  my  stubborn 

head,— 

26 


HOW  JOHN   QUIT  THE  FARM 

"  And  the  mince-meat  I'm  a-mixin'  is  perfection  mighty 

nigh; 
And  the  pound-cake  is  delicious-rich—"    "  Who'll  eat 

'em?"I-says-I. 

"  The  cramberries  is  drippin'-sweet,"  says  Mother, 

runnin'  on, 

P'tendin'  not  to  hear  me ;— "and  somehow  I  thought  of  John 
All  the  time  they  was  a-jellin'— fer  you  know  they  allus 

was 
His  favorite— he  likes  'em  so!"    Says  I,  "Well,  s'pose 

he  does?" 

"Oh,  nothin'  much!"  says  Mother,  with  a  quiet  sort  o' 

smile— 
"  This  gentleman  behind  my  cheer  may  tell  you  after 

while!" 
And  as  I  turnt  and  looked  around,  some  one  riz  up 

and  leant 
And  putt  his  arms  round  Mother's  neck,  and  laughed  in 

low  content. 

"It's  me,"  he  says— "your  fool-boy  John,  come  back  to 

shake  your  hand; 
Set  down  with  you,  and  talk  with  you,  and  make  you 

understand 

27 


HOW  JOHN   QUIT  THE  FARM 

How  dearer  yit  than  all  the  world  is  this  old  home 

that  we 
Will  spend  Thanksgivin*  in  fer  life— jest  Mother,  you 

and  me!" 


Nobody  on  the  old  farm  here  but  Mother,  me  and  John, 
Except,  of  course,  the  extry  he'p  when  harvest-time 

comes  on; 

And  then,  I  want  to  say  to  you,  we  need  sich  he'p  about, 
As  you'd  admit,  ef  you  could  see  the  way  the  crops 

turns  out! 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 

OP  the  North  I  wove  a  dream, 
All  bespangled  with  the  gleam 

Of  the  glancing  wings  of  swallows 
Dipping  ripples  in  a  stream, 
That,  like  a  tide  of  wine, 
Wound  through  lands  of  shade  and  shine 
Where  purple  grapes  hung  bursting  on  the  vine. 

And  where  orchard-boughs  were  bent 
Till  their  tawny  fruitage  blent 

With  the  golden  wake  that  marked  the 
Way  the  happy  reapers  went; 
Where  the  dawn  died  into  noon 
As  the  May-mists  into  June, 
And  the  dusk  fell  like  a  sweet  face  in  a  swoon. 

Of  the  South  I  dreamed:  And  there 
Came  a  vision  clear  and  fair 
As  the  marvellous  enchantments 
29 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 

Of  the  mirage  of  the  air; 

And  I  saw  the  bayou-trees, 

With  their  lavish  draperies, 

Hang  heavy  o'er  the  moon-washed  cypress-knees. 

Peering  from  lush  fens  of  rice, 
I  beheld  the  Negro's  eyes, 

Lit  with  that  old  superstition 
Death  itself  cannot  disguise; 
And  I  saw  the  palm-tree  nod 
Like  an  Oriental  god, 
And  the  cotton  froth  and  bubble  from  the  pod. 

And  I  dreamed  that  North  and  South, 
With  a  sigh  of  dew  and  drouth, 

Blew  each  unto  the  other 
The  salute  of  lip  and  mouth; 
And  I  wakened,  awed  and  thrilled— 
Every  doubting  murmur  stilled 
In  the  silence  of  the  dream  I  found  fulfilled. 


30 


THE  IRON   HORSE 

No  song  is  mine  of  Arab  steed— 
My  courser  is  of  nobler  blood, 

And  cleaner  limb  and  fleeter  speed, 
And  greater  strength  and  hardihood 

Than  ever  cantered  wild  and  free 

Across  the  plains  of  Araby. 

Go  search  the  level  desert  land 
From  Sana  on  to  Samarcand— 
Wherever  Persian  prince  has  been, 
Or  Dervish,  Sheik,  or  Bedouin, 
And  I  defy  you  there  to  point 

Me  out  a  steed  the  half  so  fine— 
From  tip  of  ear  to  pastern-joint— 

As  this  old  iron  horse  of  mine. 

You  do  not  know  what  beauty  is— 
You  do  not  know  what  gentleness 
His  a    -^er  is  to  my  caress!— 
31 


THE  IRON   HORSE 

Why,  look  upon  this  gait  of  his,— 
A  touch  upon  his  iron  rein— 

He  moves  with  such  a  stately  grace 
The  sunlight  on  his  burnished  mane 

Is  barely  shaken  in  its  place; 

And  at  a  touch  he  changes  pace, 
And,  gliding  backward,  stops  again. 

And  talk  of  mettle— Ah!  my  friend, 
Such  passion  smoulders  in  his  breast 

That  when  awakened  it  will  send 
A  thrill  of  rapture  wilder  than 
E'er  palpitated  heart  of  man 
When  flaming  at  its  mightiest. 

And  there's  a  fierceness  in  his  ire— 
A  maddened  majesty  that  leaps 

Along  his  veins  in  blood  of  fire, 
Until  the  path  his  vision  sweeps 

Spins  out  behind  him  like  a  thread 
Unravelled  from  the  reel  of  time, 
As,  wheeling  on  his  course  sublime, 

The  earth  revolves  beneath  his  tread. 

Then  stretch  away,  my  gallant  steed! 
Thy  mission  is  a  noble  one: 
Thou  bear'st  the  father  to  the  son, 
32 


THE  IRON   HORSE 

And  sweet  relief  to  bitter  need; 

Thou  bear'st  the  stranger  to  his  friends; 

Thou  bear'st  the  pilgrim  to  the  shrine, 
And  back  again  the  prayer  he  sends 

That  God  will  prosper  me  and  mine, — 
The  star  that  on  thy  forehead  gleams 
Has  blossomed  in  our  brightest  dreams. 
Then  speed  thee  on  thy  glorious  race! 
The  mother  waits  thy  ringing  pace; 
The  father  leans  an  anxious  ear 
The  thunder  of  thy  hooves  to  hear; 
The  lover  listens,  far  away, 
To  catch  thy  keen  exultant  neigh; 
And,  where  thy  breathings  roll  and  rise, 
The  husband  strains  his  eager  eyes, 
And  laugh  of  wife  and  baby-glee 
Ring  out  to  greet  and  welcome  thee. 
Then  stretch  away!  and  when  at  last 

The  master's  hand  shall  gently  check 
Thy  mighty  speed,  and  hold  thee  fast, 

The  world  will  pat  thee  on  the  neck. 


HIS  MOTHER'S  WAY 

TOMPS  'lid  allus  haf  to  say 

Somepin'  'bout  "  his  mother's  way/ 
He  lived  hard-like— never  jined 
Any  church  of  any  kind.— 
"  It  was  Mother's  way,"  says  he, 
"  To  be  good  enough  fer  me, 
And  her  too,— and  certinly 

Lord  has  heerd  her  pray!" 
Propped  up  on  his  dyin'  bed,— 
"  Shore  as  Heaven's  overhead, 
I'm  a-goin'  there,"  he  said— 

"  It  was  Mother's  way." 


34 


JAP  MILLER 

JAP  MILLER  down  at  Martinsville's  the  blamedest  feller 

yit! 

When  he  starts  in  a-talkin'  other  folks  is  apt  to  quit!— 
Tears  like  that  mouth  o'  his'n  wuzn't  made  fer  nothin' 

else 

But  jes  to  argify  'em  down  and  gether  in  their  pelts: 
He'll  talk  you  down  on  tariff;  er  he'll  talk  you  down  on 

tax, 
And  prove  the  pore  man  pays  'em  all— and  them's  about 

the  fac's!— 

Religen,  law,  er  politics,  prize-fightin'  er  base-ball — 
Jes  tetch  Jap  up  a  little  and  he'll  post  you  'bout  'em 

all. 

And  the  comicalist  feller  ever  tilted  back  a  cheer 
And  tuk  a  chaw  tobacker  kindo'  like  he  didn't  keer.— 
There's  where  the  feller's  stren'th  lays,— he's  so  com 
mon-like  and  plain,— 

35 


JAP  MILLER 

They  hain't  no  dude  about  old  Jap,  you  bet  you— nary 

grain! 
They  'lected  him  to  Council  and  it  never  turned  his 

head, 

And  didn't  make  no  differunce  what  anybody  said,— 
He  didn't  dress  no  finer,  ner  rag  out  in  fancy  clothes; 
But  his  voice  in  Council-meetin's  is  a  turrer  to  his  foes. 

He's  fer  the  pore  man  ever*  time!    And  in  the  last  cam 
paign 

He  stumped  old  Morgan  County,  through  the  sunshine 
and  the  rain, 

And  belt  the  banner  up'ards  from  a-trailin'  in  the  dust, 

And  cut  loose  on  monopolies  and  cuss'd  and  cuss'd  and 
cuss'd! 

He'd  tell  some  funny  story  ever*  now  and  then,  you 
know, 

Tel,  blame  it!  it  wuz  better'n  a  Jack-o'-lantern  show! 

And  I'd  go  furder,  yit,  to-day,  to  hear  old  Jap  norate 

Than  any  high-toned  orater  'at  ever  stumped  the  State! 

W'y,  that-air  blame  Jap  Miller,  with  his  keen  sircastic 

fun, 

Has  got  more  friends  than  ary  candidate  'at  ever  run! 

36 


JAP  MILLER 

Don't  matter  what  his  views  is,  when  he  states  the  same 
to  you, 

They  allus  coincide  with  your'n,  the  same  as  two  and 
two: 

You  can't  take  issue  with  him— er,  at  least,  they  hain't 
no  sense 

In  star-tin'  in  to  down  him,  so  you  better  not  com 
mence.— 

The  best  way's  jes  to  listen,  like  your  humble  servant 
does, 

And  jes  concede  Jap  Miller  is  the  best  man  ever  wuz! 


A  SOUTHERN  SINGER 

Written  in  Madison  Cawein's  "  Lyrics  and  Idyls  " 

HEREIN  are  blown  from  out  the  South 
Songs  blithe  as  those  of  Pan's  pursed  mouth- 
As  sweet  in  voice  as,  in  perfume, 
The  night-breath  of  magnolia-bloom. 

Such  sumptuous  languor  lures  the  sense— 
Such  luxury  of  indolence— 
The  eyes  blur  as  a  nymph's  might  blur, 
With  water-lilies  watching  her. 

You  waken,  thrilling  at  the  trill 
Of  some  wild  bird  that  seems  to  spill 
The  silence  full  of  winy  drips 
Of  song  that  Fancy  sips  and  sips. 

Betimes,  in  brambled  lanes  wherethrough 
The  chipmunk  stripes  himself  from  view, 
38 


A   SOUTHERN  SINGER 

You  pause  to  lop  a  creamy  spray 
Of  elder-blossoms  by  the  way. 

Or  where  the  morning  dew  is  yet 
Gray  on  the  topmost  rail,  you  set 
A  sudden  palm  and,  vaulting,  meet 
Your  vaulting  shadow  in  the  wheat. 

On  lordly  swards,  of  suave  incline, 
Entessellate  with  shade  and  shine, 
You  shall  misdoubt  your  lowly  birth, 
Clad  on  as  one  of  princely  worth: 

The  falcon  on  your  wrist  shall  ride— 
Your  milk-white  Arab  side  by  side 
With  one  of  raven-black.— You  fain 
Would  kiss  the  hand  that  holds  the  rein. 

Nay,  nay,  Romancer!  Poet!  Seer! 
Sing  us  back  home— from  there  to  here: 
Grant  your  high  grace  and  wit,  but  we 
Most  honor  your  simplicity.— 

Herein  are  blown  from  out  the  South 
Songs  blithe  as  those  of  Pan's  pursed  mouth- 
As  sweet  in  voice  as,  in  perfume, 
The  night-breath  of  magnolia-bloom. 
39 


A  DREAM  OF  AUTUMN 

MELLOW  hazes,  lowly  trailing 
Over  wood  and  meadow,  veiling 
Sombre  skies,  with  wild-fowl  sailing 

Sailor-like  to  foreign  lands; 
And  the  north  wind  overleaping 
Summer's  brink,  and  flood-like  sweeping 
Wrecks  of  roses  where  the  weeping- 
Willows  wring  then*  helpless  hands. 

Flared,  like  Titan  torches  flinging 
Flakes  of  flame  and  embers,  springing 
From  the  vale,  the  trees  stand  swinging 

In  the  moaning  atmosphere; 
While  in  dead'ning  lands  the  lowing 
Of  the  cattle,  sadder  growing, 
Fills  the  sense  to  overflowing 

With  the  sorrow  of  the  year. 
40 


A   DREAM   OF  AUTUMN 

Sorrowfully,  yet  the  sweeter 
Sings  the  brook  in  rippled  metre 
Under  boughs  that  lithely  teeter 

Lorn  birds,  answering  from  the  shores 
Through  the  viny,  shady-shiny 
Interspaces,  shot  with  tiny 
Flying  motes  that  fleck  the  winy 

Wave-engraven  sycamores. 

Fields  of  ragged  stubble,  wrangled 
With  rank  weeds,  and  shocks  of  tangled 
Corn,  with  crests  like  rent  plumes  dangled 

Over  Harvest's  battle-plain; 
And  the  sudden  whir  and  whistle 
Of  the  quail  that,  like  a  missile, 
Whizzes  over  thorn  and  thistle, 

And,  a  missile,  drops  again. 

Muffled  voices,  hid  in  thickets 
Where  the  redbird  stops  to  stick  its 
Ruddy  beak  betwixt  the  pickets 

Of  the  truant's  rustic  trap; 
And  the  sound  of  laughter  ringing 
Where,  within  the  wild  vine  swinging, 
Climb  Bacchante's  schoolmates,  flinging 

Purple  clusters  in  her  lap. 
41 


A   DREAM   OF  AUTUMN 

Rich  as  wine,  the  sunset  flashes 
Round  the  tilted  world,  and  dashes 
Up  the  sloping  west,  and  splashes 

Red  foam  over  sky  and  sea— 
Till  my  dream  of  Autumn,  paling 
In  the  splendor  all-prevailing, 
Like  a  sallow  leaf  goes  sailing 

Down  the  silence  solemnly. 


TOM  VAN  ARDEN 

TOM  VAN  ARDEN,  my  old  friend, 

Our  warm  fellowship  is  one 
Far  too  old  to  comprehend 
Where  its  bond  was  first  begun: 
Mirage-like  before  my  gaze 
Gleams  a  land  of  other  days, 
Where  two  truant  boys,  astray, 
Dream  their  lazy  lives  away. 

There's  a  vision,  in  the  guise 

Of  Midsummer,  where  the  Past 
Like  a  weary  beggar  lies 
In  the  shadow  Time  has  cast; 
And  as  blends  the  bloom  of  trees 
With  the  drowsy  hum  of  bees, 
Fragrant  thoughts  and  murmurs  blend, 
Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend. 
43 


TOM  VAN   ARDEN 

Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend, 

All  the  pleasures  we  have  known 
Thrill  me  now  as  I  extend 
This  old  hand  and  grasp  your  own— 
Feeling,  in  the  rude  caress, 
All  affection's  tenderness; 
Feeling,  though  the  touch  be  rough, 
Our  old  souls  are  soft  enough. 

So  we'll  make  a  mellow  hour: 

Fill  your  pipe,  and  taste  the  wine— 
Warp  your  face,  if  it  be  sour, 
I  can  spare  a  smile  from  mine; 
If  it  sharpen  up  your  wit, 
Let  me  feel  the  edge  of  it— 
I  have  eager  ears  to  lend, 
Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend. 

Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend, 

Are  we  "lucky  dogs,"  indeed? 
Are  we  all  that  we  pretend 
In  the  jolly  life  we  lead?— 
Bachelors,  we  must  confess, 
Boast  of  "  single  blessedness  " 
To  the  world,  but  not  alone— 
Man's  best  sorrow  is  his  own! 
44 


TOM   VAN  ARDEN 

And  the  saddest  truth  is  this,— 

Life  to  us  has  never  proved 
What  we  tasted  in  the  kiss 
Of  the  women  we  have  loved: 
Vainly  we  congratulate 
Our  escape  from  such  a  fate 
As  their  lying  lips  could  send, 
Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend! 

Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend, 

Hearts,  like  fruit  upon  the  stem, 
Ripen  sweetest,  I  contend, 
As  the  frost  falls  over  them: 
Your  regard  for  me  to-day 
Makes  November  taste  of  May, 
And  through  every  vein  of  rhyme 
Pours  the  blood  of  summer-time. 

When  our  souls  are  cramped  with  youth 

Happiness  seems  far  away 
In  the  future,  while,  in  truth, 
We  look  back  on  it  to-day 
Through  our  tears,  nor  dare  to  boast,- 
"Better  to  have  loved  and  lost!" 
Broken  hearts  are  hard  to  mend, 
Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend. 
45 


TOM  VAN   ARDEN 

Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend, 

I  grow  prosy,  and  you  tire; 
Fill  the  glasses  while  I  bend 
To  prod  up  the  failing  fire.  .  .  . 
You  are  restless:— I  presume 
There's  a  dampness  in  the  room. — 
Much  of  warmth  our  nature  begs, 
With  rheumatics  in  our  legs!  .  .  . 

Humph!  the  legs  we  used  to  fling 

Limber-jointed  in  the  dance, 
When  we  heard  the  fiddle  ring 
Up  the  curtain  of  Romance, 
And  in  crowded  public  halls 
Played  with  hearts  like  jugglers'  balls.- 
Feats  of  mountebanks,  depend  ! — 
Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend. 

Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend, 

Pardon,  then,  this  theme  of  mine: 
While  the  firelight  leaps  to  lend 
Higher  color  to  the  wine,— 
I  propose  a  health  to  those 
Who  have  homes,  and  home's  repose, 
Wife-  and  child-love  without  end! 
.  .  .  Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend. 
46 


JUST  TO   BE  GOOD 

JUST  to  be  good— 

This  is  enough— enough! 
0  we  who  find  sin's  billows  wild  and  rough, 
Do  we  not  feel  how  more  than  any  gold 
Would  be  the  blameless  life  we  led  of  old 
While  yet  our  lips  knew  but  a  mother's  kiss! 
Ah!  though  we  miss 
All  else  but  this, 

To  be  good  is  enough! 

It  is  enough— 

Enough— just  to  be  good! 
To  lift  our  hearts  where  they  are  understood; 
To  let  the  thirst  for  worldly  power  and  place 
Go  unappeased;  to  smile  back  in  God's  face 
With  the  glad  lips  our  mothers  used  to  kiss. 
Ah!  though  we  miss 
All  else  but  this, 

To  be  good  is  enough! 


47 


HOME  AT  NIGHT 

WHEN  chirping  crickets  fainter  cry, 
And  pale  stars  blossom  in  the  sky, 
And  twilight's  gloom  has  dimmed  the  bloom 
And  blurred  the  butterfly: 

When  locust-blossoms  fleck  the  walk, 
And  up  the  tiger-lily  stalk 
The  glow-worm  crawls  and  clings  and  falls 
And  glimmers  down  the  garden- walls: 

When  buzzing  things,  with  double  wings 
Of  crisp  and  raspish  flutterings, 
Go  whizzing  by  so  very  nigh 
One  thinks  of  fangs  and  stings:— 

0  then,  within,  is  stilled  the  din 
Of  crib  she  rocks  the  baby  in, 
And  heart  and  gate  and  latch's  weight 
Are  lifted— and  the  lips  of  Kate. 


48 


THE   HOOSIER   FOLK-CHILD 

THE  Hoosier  Folk-Child— all  unsung- 
Unlettered  all  of  mind  and  tongue; 
Unmastered,  unmolested— made 
Most  wholly  frank  and  unafraid: 
Untaught  of  any  school— unvexed 
Of  law  or  creed— all  unperplexed— 
Unsermoned,  ay,  and  undefiled, 
An  all  imperfect-perfect  child— 
A  type  which  (Heaven  forgive  us!)  you 
And  I  do  tardy  honor  to, 
And  so  profane  the  sanctities 
Of  our  most  sacred  memories. 
Who,  growing  thus  from  boy  to  man, 
That  dares  not  be  American? 
Go,  Pride,  with  prudent  underbuzz— 
Go  whistle  !  as  the  Folk-Child  does. 
49 


THE   HOOSIER  FOLK-CHILD 

The  Hoosier  Folk-Child's  world  is  not 
Much  wider  than  the  stable-lot 
Between  the  house  and  highway  fence 
That  bounds  the  home  his  father  rents. 
His  playmates  mostly  are  the  ducks 
And  chickens,  and  the  boy  that  "  shucks 
Corn  by  the  shock,"  and  talks  of  town, 
And  whether  eggs  are  "  up  "  or  "  down," 
And  prophesies  in  boastful  tone 
Of  "  owning  horses  of  his  own," 
And  "  being  his  own  man,"  and  "  when 
He  gets  to  be,  what  he'll  do  then."— 
Takes  out  his  jack-knife  dreamily 
And  makes  the  Folk-Child  two  or  three 
Crude  corn-stalk  figures,— a  wee  span 
Of  horses  and  a  little  man. 

The  Hoosier  Folk-Child's  eyes  are  wise 
And  wide  and  round  as  brownies'  eyes: 
The  smile  they  wear  is  ever  blent 
With  all-expectant  wonderment,— 
On  homeliest  things  they  bend  a  look 
As  rapt  as  o'er  a  picture-book, 
And  seem  to  ask,  whate'er  befall, 
The  happy  reason  of  it  all:— 
50 


THE   HOOSIER  FOLK-CHILD 

Why  grass  is  all  so  glad  a  green, 
And  leaves— and  what  their  lispings  mean;— 
Why  buds  grow  on  the  boughs,  and  why 
They  burst  in  blossom  by  and  by— 
As  though  the  orchard  in  the  breeze 
Had  shook  and  popped  its  pop-corn  trees, 
To  lure  and  whet,  as  well  they  might, 
Some  seven-league  giant's  appetite! 

The  Hoosier  Folk-Child's  chubby  face 
Has  scant  refinement,  caste  or  grace,— 
From  crown  to  chin,  and  cheek  to  cheek, 
It  bears  the  grimy  water-streak 
Of  rinsings  such  as  some  long  rain 
Might  drool  across  the  window-pane 
Wherethrough  he  peers,  with  troubled  frown, 
As  some  lorn  team  drives  by  for  town. 
His  brow  is  elfed  with  wispish  hair, 
With  tangles  in  it  here  and  there, 
As  though  the  warlocks  snarled  it  so 
At  midmirk  when  the  moon  sagged  low, 
And  boughs  did  toss  and  skreek  and  shake, 
And  children  moaned  themsejves  awake, 
With  fingers  clutched,  and  starting  sight 
Blind  as  the  blackness  of  the  night! 

a 


THE  HOOSIER  FOLK-CHILD 

The  Hoosier  Folk-Child!— Rich  is  he 

In  all  the  wealth  of  poverty! 

He  owns  nor  title  nor  estate, 

Nor  speech  but  half  articulate,— 

He  owns  nor  princely  robe  nor  crown;— 

Yet,  draped  in  patched  and  faded  brown, 

He  owns  the  bird-songs  of  the  hills— 

The  laughter  of  the  April  rills; 

And  his  are  all  the  diamonds  set 

In  Morning's  dewy  coronet,  — 

And  his  the  Dusk's  first  minted  stars 

That  twinkle  through  the  pasture-bars 

And  litter  all  the  skies  at  night 

With  glittering  scraps  of  silver  light;— 

The  rainbow's  bar,  from  rim  to  rim, 

In  beaten  gold,  belongs  to  him. 


52 


JACK  THE  GIANT-KILLER 

Bad  Boy's  Version 

TELL  you  a  story— an'  it's  a  fac': — 
Wunst  wuz  a  little  boy,  name  wuz  Jack, 
An'  he  had  sword  an'  buckle  an'  strap 
Maked  of  gold,  an'  a  "Visibul  cap"; 
An'  he  killed  Gi'nts  'at  et  whole  cows— 
Th'  horns  an'  all— an'  pigs  an'  sows! 
But  Jack,  his  golding  sword  wuz,  oh! 
So  awful  sharp  'at  he  could  go 
An'  cut  th'  ole  Gi'nts  clean  in  two 
'Fore  'ey  knowed  what  he  wuz  goin'  to  do! 
An'  one  ole  Gi'nt,  he  had  four 
Heads,  an'  name  wuz  "  Bumblebore  "— 
An'  he  wuz  feared  o'  Jack— 'cause  he, 
Jack,  he  killed  six— five— ten— three, 
An'  all  o'  th'  uther  ole  Gi'nts  but  him: 
An*  thay  wuz  a  place  Jack  haf  to  swim 
53 


JACK  THE  GIANT-KILLER 

Tore  he  could  git  t'  ole  "  Bumblebore  "— 

Nen  thay  wuz  "  griffuns"  at  the  door: 

But  Jack,  he  thist  plunged  in  an'  swum 

Clean  acrost;  an'  when  he  come 

To  th'  uther  side,  he  thist  put  on 

His  "'visibul  cap,"  an'  nen,  dog-gone! 

You  couldn't  see  him  at  all!— An'  so 

He  slewed  the  "  griffuns"— boff,  you  know! 

Nen  wuz  a  horn  hunged  over  his  head, 

High  on  th'  wall,  an'  words  'at  read,— 

"  Whoever  kin  this  trumput  blow 

Shall  cause  the  Gi'nt's  overth'ow!" 

An'  Jack,  he  thist  reached  up  an'  blowed 

The  stuffin'  out  of  it!  an'  th'owed 

Th'  castul-gates  wide  open,  an' 

Nen  tuk  his  gold  sword  in  his  han', 

An'  thist  marched  in  t'  ole  "  Bumblebore," 

An',  'fore  he  knowed,  he  put  'bout  four 

Heads  on  him— an'  chopped  'em  off,  too!— 

Wisht  'at  Td  been  Jack!— don't  you? 


54 


WHILE  THE  MUSICIAN  PLAYED 

0  IT  was  but  a  dream  I  had 

While  the  musician  played!— 
And  here  the  sky,  and  here  the  glad 

Old  ocean  kissed  the  glade; 
And  here  the  laughing  ripples  ran, 

And  here  the  roses  grew 
That  threw  a  kiss  to  every  man 

That  voyaged  with  the  crew. 

Our  silken  sails  in  lazy  folds 

Drooped  in  the  breathless  breeze: 
As  o'er  a  field  of  marigolds 

Our  eyes  swam  o'er  the  seas; 
While  here  the  eddies  lisped  and  purled 

Around  the  island's  rim, 
And  up  from  out  the  underworld 

We  saw  the  mermen  swim. 
55 


WHILE  THE   MUSICIAN   PLAYED 

And  it  was  dawn  and  middle-day 

And  midnight— for  the  moon 
On  silver  rounds  across  the  bay 

Had  climbed  the  skies  of  June,— 
And  there  the  glowing,  glorious  king 

Of  day  ruled  o'er  his  realm, 
With  stars  of  midnight  glittering 

About  his  diadem. 

The  sea-gull  reeled  on  languid  wing 

In  circles  round  the  mast, 
We  heard  the  songs  the  sirens  sing 

As  we  went  sailing  past; 
And  up  and  down  the  golden  sands 

A  thousand  fairy  throngs 
Flung  at  us  from  their  flashing  hands 

The  echoes  of  their  songs. 

0  it  was  but  a  dream  I  had 

While  the  musician  played!— 
For  here  the  sky,  and  here  the  glad 

Old  ocean  kissed  the  glade; 
And  here  the  laughing  ripples  ran, 

And  here  the  roses  grew 
That  threw  a  kiss  to  every  man 

That  voyaged  with  the  crew. 
56 


AUGUST 

A  DAY  of  torpor  in  the  sullen  heat 

Of  Summer's  passion:  In  the  sluggish  stream 
The  panting  cattle  lave  their  lazy  feet, 

With  drowsy  eyes,  and  dream. 

Long  since  the  winds  have  died,  and  in  the  sky 
There  lives  no  cloud  to  hint  of  Nature's  grief; 

The  sun  glares  ever  like  an  evil  eye, 
And  withers  flower  and  leaf. 

Upon  the  gleaming  harvest-field  remote 
The  thresher  lies  deserted,  like  some  old 

Dismantled  galleon  that  hangs  afloat 
Upon  a  sea  of  gold. 

The  yearning  cry  of  some  bewildered  bird 
Above  an  empty  nest,  and  truant  boys 
67 


AUGUST 

Along  the  river's  shady  margin  heard— 
A  harmony  of  noise— 

A  melody  of  wrangling  voices  blent 

With  liquid  laughter,  and  with  rippling  calls 

Of  piping  lips  and  trilling  echoes  sent 
To  mimic  waterfalls. 

And  through  the  hazy  veil  the  atmosphere 
Has  draped  about  the  gleaming  face  of  Day, 

The  sifted  glances  of  the  sun  appear 
In  splinterings  of  spray. 

The  dusty  highway,  like  a  cloud  of  dawn, 
Trails  o'er  the  hillside,  and  the  passer-by, 

A  tired  ghost  in  misty  shroud,  toils  on 
His  journey  to  the  sky. 

And  down  across  the  valley's  drooping  sweep, 
Withdrawn  to  farthest  limit  of  the  glade, 

The  forest  stands  in  silence,  drinking  deep 
Its  purple  wine  of  shade. 

The  gossamer  floats  up  on  phantom  wing; 

The  sailor-vision  voyages  the  skies 
And  carries  into  chaos  everything 

That  freights  the  weary  eyes: 
58 


AUGUST 

Till,  throbbing  on  and  on,  the  pulse  of  heat 
Increases— reaches— passes  fever's  height, 

And  Day  sinks  into  slumber,  cool  and  sweet, 
Within  the  arms  of  Night. 


TO  HEAR  HER  SING 

To  hear  her  sing— to  hear  her  sing- 
It  is  to  hear  the  birds  of  Spring 
In  dewy  groves  on  blooming  sprays 
Pour  out  their  blithest  roundelays. 

It  is  to  hear  the  robin  trill 

At  morning,  or  the  whippoorwill 

At  dusk,  when  stars  are  blossoming— 

To  hear  her  sing— to  hear  her  sing! 

To  hear  her  sing— it  is  to  hear 
The  laugh  of  childhood  ringing  clear 
In  woody  path  or  grassy  lane 
Our  feet  may  never  fare  again. 

Faint,  far  away  as  Memory  dwells, 
It  is  to  hear  the  village  bells 
66 


TO   HEAR  HER  SING 

At  twilight,  as  the  truant  hears 

Them,  hastening  home,  with  smiles  and  tears. 

Such  joy  it  is  to  hear  her  sing, 
We  fall  in  love  with  everything — 
The  simple  things  of  every  day 
Grow  lovelier  than  words  can  say. 

The  idle  brooks  that  purl  across 
The  gleaming  pebbles  and  the  moss 
We  love  no  less  than  classic  streams— 
The  Rhines  and  Arnos  of  our  dreams. 

To  hear  her  sing— with  folded  eyes, 
It  is,  beneath  Venetian  skies, 
To  hear  the  gondoliers'  refrain, 
Or  troubadours  of  sunny  Spain.— 

To  hear  the  bulbul's  voice  that  shook 
The  throat  that  trilled  for  Lalla  Rookh; 
What  wonder  we  in  homage  bring 
Our  hearts  to  her— to  hear  her  sing! 


BEING   HIS  MOTHER 

BEING  his  mother,— when  he  goes  away 
I  would  not  hold  him  overlong,  and  so 
Sometimes  my  yielding  sight  of  him  grows  0 
So  quick  of  tears,  I  joy  he  did  not  stay 
To  catch  the  faintest  rumor  of  them!  Nay, 
Leave  always  his  eyes  clear  and  glad,  although 
Mine  own,  dear  Lord,  do  fill  to  overflow; 
Let  his  remembered  features,  as  I  pray, 
Smile  ever  on  me!   Ah!  what  stress  of  love 
Thou  givest  me  to  guard  with  Thee  thiswise: 
Its  fullest  speech  ever  to  be  denied 
Mine  own— being  his  mother!  All  thereof 
Thou  knowest  only,  looking  from  the  skies 
As  when  not  Christ  alone  was  crucified. 


62 


JUNE  AT  WOODRUFF 

OUT  at  Woodruff  Place— afar 
From  the  city's  glare  and  jar, 
With  the  leafy  trees,  instead 
Of  the  awnings,  overhead; 
With  the  shadows  cool  and  sweet, 
For  the  fever  of  the  street; 
With  the  silence,  like  a  prayer, 
Breathing  round  us  everywhere. 

Gracious  anchorage,  at  last, 
From  the  billows  of  the  vast 
Tide  of  life  that  comes  and  goes, 
Whence  and  where  nobody  knows — 
Moving,  like  a  sceptic's  thought, 
Out  of  nowhere  into  naught. 
Touch  and  tame  us  with  thy  grace, 
Placid  calm  of  Woodruff  Place! 
63 


JUNE  AT  WOODRUFF 

Weave  a  wreath  of  beechen  leaves 
For  the  brow  that  throbs  and  grieves 
O'er  the  ledger,  bloody-lined, 
'Neath  the  sunstruck  window-blind! 
Send  the  breath  of  woodland  bloom 
Through  the  sick  man's  prison-room, 
Till  his  old  farm-home  shall  swim 
Sweet  in  mind  to  hearten  him! 

Out  at  Woodruff  Place  the  Muse 
Dips  her  sandal  in  the  dews, 
Sacredly  as  night  and  dawn 
Baptize  lilied  grove  and  lawn: 
Woody  path,  or  paven  way- 
She  doth  haunt  them  night  and  day,— 
Sun  or  moonlight  through  the  trees, 
To  her  eyes,  are  melodies. 

Swinging  lanterns,  twinkling  clear 
Through  night-scenes,  are  songs  to  her- 
Tinted  lilts  and  choiring  hues, 
Blent  with  children's  glad  halloos; 
Then  belated  lays  that  fade 
Into  midnight's  serenade— 
Vine-like  words  and  zithern-strings 
Twined  through  all  her  slumberings. 


JUNE  AT  WOODRUFF 

Blessed  be  each  hearthstone  set 
Neighboring  the  violet! 
Blessed  every  roof -tree  prayed 
Over  by  the  beech's  shade! 
Blessed  doorway,  opening  where 
We  may  look  on  Nature— there 
Hand  to  hand  and  face  to  face — 
Storied  realm,  or  Woodruff  Place. 


FARMER   WHIPPLE-BACHELOR 

IT'S  a  mystery  to  see  me— a  man  o'  fifty-four, 
Who's  lived  a  cross  old  bachelor  fer  thirty  year*  and 

more— 
A-lookin'  glad  and  smilin'!     And  they's  none  o*  you  can 

say 
That  you  can  guess  the  reason  why  I  feel  so  good  to-day. 

I  must  tell  you  all  about  it!    But  I'll  have  to  deviate 
A  little  in  beginnin',  so's  to  set  the  matter  straight 
As  to  how  it  comes  to  happen  that  I  never  took  a  wife— 
Kindo'  "  crawfish  "  from  the  Present  to  the  Springtime 
of  my  life! 

I  was  brought  up  in  the  country:  Of  a  family  of  five— 
Three  brothers  and  a  sister— I'm  the  only  one  alive,— 
Fer  they  all  died  little  babies;  and  'twas  one  o'  Mother's 

ways, 
You  know,  to  want  a  daughter;  so  she  took  a  girl  to 

raise. 

66 


FARMER  WHIPPLE-BACHELOR 

The  sweetest  little  thing  she  was,  with  rosy  cheeks,  and 

fat— 
We  was  little  chunks  o'  shavers  then  about  as  high  as 

that! 
But  someway  we  sorto'  suited-likel  and  Mother  she'd 

declare 
She  never  laid  her  eyes  on  a  more  lovin'  pair 

Than  we  was!  So  we  growed  up  side  by  side  fer  thirteen 

year*, 

And  every  hour  of  it  she  growed  to  me  more  dear!— 
W'y,  even  Father's  dyin',  as  he  did,  I  do  believe 
Warn't  more  affectin'  to  me  than  it  was  to  see  her  grieve! 

I  was  then  a  lad  o'  twenty;  and  I  felt  a  flash  o'  pride 
In  thinkin'  all  depended  on  me  now  to  pervide 
Fer  Mother  and  fer  Mary;  and  I  went  about  the  place 
With  sleeves  rolled  up— and  workin',  with  a  mighty 
smilin'  face. — 

Fer  somepin'  else  was  workin'!  but  not  a  word  I  said 
Of  a  certain  sort  o'  notion  that  was  runnin'  through  my 

head,— 

"  Some  day  Fd  mayby  marry,  and  a  brother's  love  was  one 
Thing— a  lover's  was  another!"  was  the  way  the  notion 

run! 

67 


FARMER  WHIPPLE-BACHELOR 

I  remember  onc't  in  harvest,  when  the  "  cradle-in' "  waa 

done, 
(When  the  harvest  of  my  summers  mounted  up  to 

twenty-one), 

I  was  ridin'  home  with  Mary  at  the  closin'  o'  the  day— 
A-chawin'  straws  and  thinkin',  in  a  lover's  lazy  way! 

And  Mary's  cheeks  was  burnin'  like  the  sunset  down  the 

lane: 

I  noticed  she  was  thinkin',  too,  and  ast  her  to  explain. 
Well— when  she  turned  and  kissed  me,  with  her  arms 

around  me— law  ! 
I'd  a  bigger  load  o'  heaven  than  I  had  a  load  o'  straw! 

I  don't  p'tend  to  learnin',  but  I'll  tell  you  what's  a 

fac', 

They's  a  mighty  truthful  sayin'  somers  in  a'  almanac— 
Er  somers— 'bout  "puore  happiness"— perhaps  some 

folks'!!  laugh 
At  the  idy— "only  lastin'  jest  two  seconds  and  a 

half."- 

But  it's  jest  as  true  as  preachin'!— fer  that  was  a  sister's 

kiss, 

And  a  sister's  lovin'  confidence  a-tellin'  to  me  this:— 

68 


FARMER  WHIPPLE-BACHELOR 

"  She,  was  happy,  bein'  promised  to  the  son  o'  Farmer 

Brown"— 
And  my  feelin's  struck  a  pardnership  with  sunset  and 

went  down! 

I  don't  know  how  I  acted,  and  I  don't  know  what  I  said,— 
Fer  my  heart  seemed  jest  a-turnin'  to  an  ice-cold  lump 

o'  lead; 

And  the  hosses  kindo'  glimmered  before  me  in  the  road, 
And  the  lines  fell  from  my  fingers— And  that  was  all  I 

knowed— 

Fer— well,  I  don't  know  how  long— They's  a  dim  remem- 

berence 
Of  a  sound  o'  snortin'  horses,  and  a  stake-and-ridered 

fence 

A-whizzin'  past,  and  wheat-sheaves  a-dancin'  in  the  air, 
And  Mary  screamin' "  Murder! "  and  a-runnin'  up  to  where 

/  was  layin'  by  the  roadside,  and  the  wagon  upside  down 
A-leanin'  on  the  gate-post,  with  the  wheels  a-whirlin* 

roun'! 
And  I  tried  to  raise  and  meet  her,  but  I  couldn't,  with 

a  vague 

Sorto'  notion  comin'  to  me  that  I  had  a  broken  leg. 

69 


FARMER  WHIPPLE- BACHELOR 

Well,  the  women  nussed  me  through  it;  but  many  a  time 

I'd  sigh 

As  I'd  keep  a-gittin'  better  instid  o'  goin'  to  die, 
And  wonder  what  was  left  me  worth  livin'  fer  below, 
When  the  girl  I  loved  was  married  to  another,  don't  you 

know! 

And  my  thoughts  was  as  rebellious  as  the  folks  was 

good  and  kind 
When  Brown  and  Mary  married— Railly  must  'a'  been  my 

mind 

Was  kindo'  out  o'  kilter!— fer  I  hated  Brown,  you  see, 
Worse'n  pizen— and  the  feller  whittled  crutches  out  fer 

me— 

And  done  a  thousand  little  ac's  o'  kindness  and  respec'— 
And  me  a-wishin'  all  the  time  that  I  could  break  his 

neck! 
My  relief  was  like  a  mourner's  when  the  funeral  is 

done 
When  they  moved  to  Illinois  in  the  Fall  o'  Forty-one. 

Then  I  went  to  work  in  airnest— I  had  nothin'  much  in 

view 
But  to  drownd  out  rickollections— and  it  kep'  me  busy, 

too! 

70 


FARMER   WHIPPLE- BACHELOR 

But  I  slowly  thrived  and  prospered,  tel  Mother  used  to  say 
She  expected  yit  to  see  me  a  wealthy  man  some  day. 

Then  I'd  think  how  little  money  was,  compared  to  hap 
piness— 

And  who'd  be  left  to  use  it  when  I  died  I  couldn't  guess! 
But  I've  still  kep'  speculatin'  and  a-gainin'  year  by  year, 
Tel  I'm  payin'  half  the  taxes  in  the  county,  mighty  near! 

Well!— A  year  ago  er  better,  a  letter  comes  to  hand 
Astin'  how  I'd  like  to  dicker  fer  some  Illinois  land— 
"  The  feller  that  had  owned  it,"  it  went  ahead  to  state, 
"  Had  jest  deceased,  insolvent,  leavin*  chance  to  specu- 
late,"- 

And  then  it  closed  by  sayin'  that  I'd  "  better  come  and 

see."- 

I'd  never  been  West,  anyhow— a'most  too  wild  fer  me, 
I'd  allus  had  a  notion;  but  a  lawyer  here  in  town 
Said  I'd  find  myself  mistakend  when  I  come  to  look 

around. 

So  I  bids  good-bye  to  Mother,  and  I  jumps  aboard  the 

train, 
A-thinkin'  what  I'd  bring  her  when  I  come  back  home 

again— 

71 


FARMER  WHIPPLE-BACHELOR 

And  ef  she'd  had  an  idy  what  the  present  was  to  be, 
I  think  it's  more'n  likely  she'd  'a'  went  along  with  me! 

Cars  is  awful  tejus  ridin',  fer  all  they  go  so  fast! 
But  finally  they  called  out  my  stoppin'-place  at  last: 
And  that  night,  at  the  tavern,  I  dreamp'  I  was  a  train 
0'  cars,  and  skeered  at  somepin',  runnin'  down  a  country 
lane! 

Well,  in  the  morning  airly— after  huntin'  up  the  man— 
The  lawyer  who  was  wantin'  to  swap  the  piece  o' 

land— 

We  started  fer  the  country;  and  I  ast  the  history 
Of  the  farm— its  former  owner— and  so  forth,  etcetery! 

And— well— it  was  interesfin'— I  su'prised  him,  I  suppose, 
By  the  loud  and  frequent  manner  in  which  I  blowed  my 

nose!— 
But  his  su'prise  was  greater,  and  it  made  him  wonder 

more, 
When  I  kissed  and  hugged  the  widder  when  she  met  us 

at  the  door!— 

It  was  Mary:  .  .  .  They*s  a  feelin' a-hidin' down  in  here— 
Of  course  I  can't  explain  it,  ner  ever  make  it  clear.— 

72 


FARMER  WHIPPLE-BACHELOR 

It  was  with  us  in  that  meetin',  I  don't  want  you  to 

fergit! 
And  it  makes  me  kindo'  nervous  when  I  think  about  it 

yit! 

I  bought  that  farm,  and  deeded  it,  afore  I  left  the  town, 
With  "  title  clear  to  mansions  in  the  skies,"  to  Mary 

Brown! 
And  fu'thermore,  I  took  her  and  the  chttdern—fer  you 

see, 
They'd  never  seed  their  Grandma— and  I  fetched  'em 

home  with  me. 

So  now  you've  got  an  idy  why  a  man  o'  fifty-four, 
Who's  lived  a  cross  old  bachelor  fer  thirty  year5  and 

more, 
Is  a-lookin'  glad  and  smilin'!— And  I've  jest  come  Into 

town 
To  git  a  pair  o'  license  fer  to  marry  Mary  Brown. 


73 


DAWN,  NOON  AND  DEWFALL 


DAWN,  noon  and  dewfall!    Bluebird  and  robin 
Up  and  at  it  airly,  and  the  orchard-blossoms  bobbin'! 
Peekin'  from  the  winder,  half  awake,  and  wishin' 
I  could  go  to  sleep  ag'in  as  well  as  go  a-fishin'! 

II 

On  the  apern  o'  the  dam,  legs  a-danglin'  over, 
Drowsy-like  with  sound  o'  worter  and  the  smell  o'  clover; 
Fish  all  out  a-visitin'— 'cept  some  dratted  minnor! 
Yes,  and  mill  shet  down  at  last  and  hands  is  gone  to 
dinner. 

m 

Trompin'  home  acrost  the  fields:  Lightnin'-bugs  a-blinkin' 
In  the  wheat  like  sparks  o'  things  feller  keeps 

a-thinkin': — 
Mother  waitin'  supper,  and  the  childern  there  to  cherr 

me; 

And  fiddle  on  the  kitchen  wall  a-jist  a-eechin'  fer  me! 

74 


NESSMUK 

I  HAIL  thee,  Nessmuk,  for  the  lofty  tone 
Yet  simple  grace  that  marks  thy  poetry! 
True  forester  thou  art,  and  still  to  be, 
Even  in  happier  fields  than  thou  hast  known. 
Thus,  in  glad  visions,  glimpses  am  I  shown 
Of  groves  delectable— "preserves"  for 

thee— 
Ranged  but  by  friends  of  thine— I  name 

thee  three:— 

First,  Chaucer,  with  his  bald  old  pate  new-grown 
With  changeless  laurel;  next,  in  Lincoln- 
green, 
Gold-belted,  -bowed  and  bugled,  Robin 

Hood; 

And  next,  Ike  Walton,  patient  and  serene: 
These  three,  0  Nessmuk,  gathered  hunter-wise, 
Are  camped  on  hither  slopes  of  Paradise, 
To  hail  thee  first  and  greet  thee,  as  they 
should. 

75 


AS  MY  UNCLE  UST  TO  SAY 

FVE  thought  a  power  on  men  and  things — 

As  my  uncle  ust  to  say, — 
And  ef  folks  don't  work  as  they  pray,  i  jings! 

W'y,  they  ain't  no  use  to  pray! 
Ef  you  want  somepin',  and  jes  dead-set 
A-pleadin'  fer  it  with  both  eyes  wet, 
And  tears  won't  bring  it,  w'y,  you  try  sweat, 

As  my  uncle  ust  to  say. 

They's  some  don't  know  their  A,  B,  (7s— 

As  my  uncle  ust  to  say— 
And  yit  don't  waste  no  candle-grease, 

Ner  whistle  their  lives  away! 
But  ef  they  can't  write  no  book,  ner  rhyme 
No  ringin'  song  fer  to  last  all  time, 
They  can  blaze  the  way  fer  "  the  march  sublime," 

As  my  uncle  ust  to  say. 
76 


AS  MY  UNCLE  UST  TO  SAY 

Whoever's  Foreman  of  all  things  here, 

As  my  uncle  list  to  say, 
He  knows  each  job  'at  we're  best  fit  fer, 

And  our  round-up,  night  and  day: 
And  a-sizin'  His  work,  east  and  west, 
And  north  and  south,  and  worst  and  best, 
I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  suggest, 
As  my  uncle  ust  to  say. 


THE   SINGER 

WHILE  with  Ambition's  hectic  flame 

He  wastes  the  midnight  oil, 
And  dreams,  high-throned  on  heights  of  fame, 

To  rest  him  from  his  toil, — 

Death's  Angel,  like  a  vast  eclipse, 

Above  him  spreads  her  wings, 
And  fans  the  embers  of  his  lips 

To  ashes  as  he  sings. 


A  FULL  HARVEST 

SEEMS  like  a  feller'd  ort'o  jes  to-day 
Git  down  and  roll  and  waller,  don't  you  know, 
In  that-air  stubble,  and  flop  up  and  crow, 

Seem'  sich  craps!    I'll  undertake  to  say 

There're  no  wheat's  ever  turned  out  thataway 
Afore  this  season!— Folks  is  keerless,  tho', 
And  too  fergitful— 'caze  we'd  ort'o  show 

More  thankfulness!— Jes  looky  hyonder,  hey?— 
And  watch  that  little  reaper  wadin'  thue 

That  last  old  yaller  hunk  o'  harvest-ground — 
Jes  natchur'ly  a-slicin'  it  in  two 

Like  honeycomb,  and  gaumin'  it  around 
The  field— like  it  had  nothin'  else  to  do 
On'y  jes  waste  it  all  on  me  and  you! 


79 


BLIND 

You  think  it  is  a  sorry  thing 

That  I  am  blind.    Your  pitying 

Is  welcome  to  me;  yet  indeed, 

I  think  I  have  but  little  need 

Of  it.    Though  you  may  marvel  much 

That  we,  who  see  by  sense  of  touch 

And  taste  and  hearing,  see  things  you 

May  never  look  upon;  and  true 

Is  it  that  even  in  the  scent 

Of  blossoms  we  find  something  meant 

No  eyes  have  in  their  faces  read, 

Or  wept  to  see  interpreted. 

And  you  might  think  it  strange  if  now 
I  told  you  you  were  smiling.    How 
Do  I  know  that?    I  hold  your  hand  — 
Its  language  I  can  understand— 
80 


BLIND 

Give  both  to  me,  and  I  will  show 
You  many  other  things  I  know. 
Listen:  We  never  met  before 
Till  now?— Well,  you  are  something  lower 
Than  five-feet-eight  in  height;  and  you 
Are  slender;  and  your  eyes  are  blue— 
Your  mother's  eyes— your  mother's  hair — 
Your  mother's  likeness  everywhere 
Save  in  your  walk— and  that  is  quite 
Your  father's;  nervous.— Am  I  right? 
I  thought  so.    And  you  used  to  sing, 
But  have  neglected  everything 
Of  vocalism— though  you  may 
Still  thrum  on  the  guitar,  and  play 
A  little  on  the  violin,— 
I  know  that  by  the  callus  in 
The  finger-tips  of  your  left  hand— 
And,  by  the  by,  though  nature  planned 
You  as  most  men,  you  are,  I  see, 
"Le/Z-handed,"  too,— the  mystery 
Is  clear,  though,— your  right  arm  has  been 
Broken,  to  "  break  "  the  left  one  in. 
And  so,  you  see,  though  blind  of  sight, 
I  still  have  ways  of  seeing  quite 
Too  well  for  you  to  sympathize 
Excessively,  with  your  good  eyes.— 
81 


BLIND 

Though  once,  perhaps,  to  be  sincere, 
Within  the  whole  asylum  here, 
From  cupola  to  basement  hall, 
I  was  the  blindest  of  them  all! 


Let  us  move  farther  down  the  walk— 
The  man  here  waiting  hears  my  talk, 
And  is  disturbed;  besides,  he  may 
Not  be  quite  friendly  anyway. 
In  fact— (this  will  be  far  enough; 
Sit  down)— the  man  just  spoken  of 
Was  once  a  friend  of  mine.    He  came 
For  treatment  here  from  Burlingame— 
A  rich  though  brilliant  student  there, 
Who  read  his  eyes  out  of  repair, 
And  groped  his  way  up  here,  where  we 
Became  acquainted,  and  where  he 
Met  one  of  our  girl-teachers,  and, 
If  you'll  believe  me,  asked  her  hand 
In  marriage,  though  the  girl  was  blind 
As  I  am— and  the  girl  declined. 
Odd,  wasn't  it  ?    Look,  you  can  see 
Him  waiting  there.    Fine,  isn't  he? 
And  handsome,  eloquently  wide 
And  high  of  brow,  and  dignified 
82 


BLIND 

With  every  outward  grace,  his  sight 
Restored  to  him,  clear  and  bright 
As  day-dawn;  waiting,  waiting  still 
For  the  blind  girl  that  never  will 
Be  wife  of  his.    How  do  I  know? 
You  will  recall  a  while  ago 
I  told  you  he  and  I  were  friends. 
In  all  that  friendship  comprehends, 
I  was  his  friend,  I  swear!  why,  now, 
Remembering  his  love,  and  how 
His  confidence  was  all  my  own, 
I  hear,  in  fancy,  the  low  tone 
Of  his  deep  voice,  so  full  of  pride 
And  passion,  yet  so  pacified 
With  his  affliction,  that  it  seems 
An  utterance  sent  out  of  dreams 
Of  saddest  melody,  withal 
So  sorrowfully  musical 
It  was,  and  is,  must  ever  be— 
But  Fm  digressing,  pardon  me. 
I  knew  not  anything  of  love 
In  those  days,  but  of  that  above 
All  worldly  passion,— for  my  art- 
Music,— and  that,  with  all  my  heart 
And  soul,  blent  in  a  love  too  great 
For  words  of  mine  to  estimate. 
83 


BLIND 

And  though  among  my  pupils  she 
Whose  love  my  friend  sought  came  to  me, 
I  only  knew  her  fingers'  touch 
Because  they  loitered  overmuch 
In  simple  scales,  and  needs  must  be 
Untangled  almost  constantly. 
But  she  was  bright  in  other  ways, 
And  quick  of  thought;  with  ready  plays 
Of  wit,  and  with  a  voice  as  sweet 
To  listen  to  as  one  might  meet 
In  any  oratorio— 
And  once  I  gravely  told  her  so, — 
And,  at  my  words,  her  limpid  tone 
Of  laughter  faltered  to  a  moan, 
And  fell  from  that  into  a  sigh 
That  quavered  all  so  wearily, 
That  I,  without  the  tear  that  crept 
Between  the  keys,  had  known  she  wept; 
And  yet  the  hand  I  reached  for  then 
She  caught  away,  and  laughed  again. 
And  when  that  evening  I  strolled 
With  my  old  friend,  I,  smiling,  told 
Him  I  believed  the  girl  and  he 
Were  matched  and  mated  perfectly: 
He  was  so  noble;  she,  so  fair 
Of  speech,  and  womanly  of  air; 
84 


BLIND 

He,  strong,  ambitious;  she,  as  mild 
And  artless  even  as  a  child; 
And  with  a  nature,  I  was  sure, 
As  worshipful  as  it  was  pure 
And  sweet,  and  brimmed  with  tender  things 
Beyond  his  rarest  fancyings. 
He  stopped  me  solemnly.    He  knew, 
He  said,  how  good,  and  just,  and  true 
Was  all  I  said  of  her;  but  as 
For  his  own  virtues,  let  them  pass, 
Since  they  were  nothing  to  the  one 
That  he  had  set  his  heart  upon; 
For  but  that  morning  she  had  turned 
Forever  from  him.    Then  I  learned 
That  for  a  month  he  had  delayed 
His  going  from  us,  with  no  aid 
Of  hope  to  hold  him,— meeting  still 
Her  ever-firm  denial,  till 
Not  even  in  his  new-found  sight 
He  found  one  comfort  or  delight. 
And  as  his  voice  broke  there,  I  felt 
The  brother-heart  within  me  melt 
In  warm  compassion  for  his  own 
That  throbbed  so  utterly  alone. 
And  then  a  sudden  fancy  hit 
Along  my  brain;  and  coupling  it 
85 


BLIND 

With  a  belief  that  I,  indeed, 

Might  help  my  friend  in  his  great  need, 

I  warmly  said  that  I  would  go 

Myself,  if  he  decided  so, 

And  see  her  for  him— that  I  knew 

My  pleadings  would  be  listened  to 

Most  seriously,  and  that  she 

Should  love  him,  listening  to  me. 

Go;  bless  me!    And  that  was  the  last — 

The  last  time  his  warm  hand  shut  fast 

Within  my  own— so  empty  since, 

That  the  remembered  finger-prints 

I've  kissed  a  thousand  times,  and  wet 

Them  with  the  tears  of  all  regret! 

I  know  not  how  to  rightly  tell 
How  fared  my  quest,  and  what  befell 
Me,  coming  in  the  presence  of 
That  blind  girl,  and  her  blinder  love. 
I  know  but  little  else  than  that 
Above  the  chair  in  which  she  sat 
I  leant— reached  for,  and  found  her  hand, 
And  held  it  for  a  moment,  and 
Took  up  the  other— held  them  both— 
As  might  a  friend,  I  will  take  oath: 
86 


BLIND 

Spoke  leisurely,  as  might  a  man 

Praying  for  no  thing  other  than 

He  thinks  Heaven's  justice:— She  was  blind, 

I  said,  and  yet  a  noble  mind 

Most  truly  loved  her;  one  whose  fond 

Clear-sighted  vision  looked  beyond 

The  bounds  of  her  infirmity, 

And  saw  the  woman,  perfectly 

Modelled,  and  wrought  out  pure  and  true 

And  lovable.     She  quailed,  and  drew 

Her  hands  away,  but  closer  still 

I  caught  them.     " Rack  me  as  you  will!" 

She  cried  out  sharply— "Call  me  'blind'— 

Love  ever  is— I  am  resigned! 

Blind  is  your  friend;  as  blind  as  he 

Am  I— but  blindest  of  the  three — 

Yea,  blind  as  death— you  will  not  see 

My  love  for  you  is  killing  me!" 

There  is  a  memory  that  may 
Not  ever  wholly  fade  away 
From  out  my  heart,  so  bright  and  fair 
The  light  of  it  still  glimmers  there. 
Why,  it  did  seem  as  though  my  sight 
Flamed  back  upon  me,  dazzling  white 
87 


BLIND 

And  godlike.    Not  one  other  word 
Of  hers  I  listened  for  or  heard, 
But  I  saw  songs  sung  in  her  eyes 
Till  they  did  swoon  up  drowning-wise, 
As  my  mad  lips  did  strike  her  own, 
And  we  flashed  one,  and  one  alone! 
Ah!  was  it  treachery  for  me 
To  kneel  there,  drinking  eagerly 
That  torrent-flow  of  words  that  swept 
Out  laughingly  the  tears  she  wept?— 
Sweet  words!    0  sweeter  far,  maybe, 
Than  light  of  day  to  those  that  see,— 
God  knows,  who  did  the  rapture  send 
To  me,  and  hold  it  from  my  friend. 

And  we  were  married  half  a  year 
Ago.— And  he  is— waiting  here, 
Heedless  of  that— or  anything, 
But  just  that  he  is  lingering 
To  say  good-bye  to  her,  and  bow- 
As  you  may  see  him  doing  now, — 
For  there's  her  footstep  in  the  hall; 
God  bless  her!— help  him!— save  us  all! 


88 


RIGHT  HERE  AT  HOME 

RIGHT  here  at  home,  boys,  in  old  Hoosierdom, 
Where  strangers  allus  joke  us  when  they  come, 
And  brag  o'  their  old  States  and  interprize — 
Yit  settle  here;  and  'fore  they  realize, 
They're  "  hoosier  "  as  the  rest  of  us,  and  live 
Right  here  at  home,  boys,  with  their  past  f ergive*  I 

^  Right  here  at  home,  boys,  is  the  place,  I  guess, 
Fer  me  and  you  and  plain  old  happiness: 
We  hear  the  World's  lots  grander— likely  so,— • 
We'll  take  the  World's  word  fer  it  and  not  go.— 
We  know  its  ways  ain't  our  ways— so  we'll  stay 
Right  here  at  home,  boys,  where  we  know  the  way. 

Right  here  at  home,  boys,  where  a  well-to-do 
Man's  plenty  rich  enough— and  knows  it,  too, 
And's  got  a'  extry  dollar,  any  time, 
To  boost  a  feller  up  'at  wants  to  climb 
89 


RIGHT  HERE  AT  HOME 

And's  got  the  git-up  in  him  to  go  in 
And  git  there,  like  he  purt'-nigh  allus  kin! 

Right  here  at  home,  boys,  is  the  place  fer  us!— 

\Vhere  folks'  heart's  bigger'n  their  money-pu's'; 

And  where  a  common  feller's  jes  as  good 

As  ary  other  in  the  neighberhood: 

The  World  at  large  don't  worry  you  and  me 

Right  here  at  home,  boys,  where  we  ort  to  be! 

Right  here  at  home,  boys— jes  right  where  we  air!— 
Birds  don't  sing  any  sweeter  anywhere: 
Grass  don't  grow  any  greener'n  she  grows 
Acrost  the  pastur5  where  the  old  path  goes, — 
All  things  in  ear-shot's  purty,  er  in  sight, 
Right  here  at  home,  boys,  ef  we  size  'em  right. 

Right  here  at  home,  boys,  where  the  old  home-place 

Is  sacerd  to  us  as  our  mother's  face, 

Jes  as  we  rickollect  her,  last  she  smiled 

And  kissed  us— dyin'  so,  and  rickonciled, 

Seein'  us  all  at  home  here— none  astray — 

Right  here  at  home,  boys,  where  she  sleeps  to-day. 


90 


THE  LITTLE   FAT  DOCTOR 

HE  seemed  so  strange  to  me,  every  way— 
In  manner,  and  form,  and  size, 

From  the  boy  I  knew  but  yesterday,— 
I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes! 

To  hear  his  name  called  over  there, 
My  memory  thrilled  with  glee 

And  leaped  to  picture  him  young  and  fair 
In  youth,  as  he  used  to  be. 

But  looking,  only  as  glad  eyes  can, 

For  the  boy  I  knew  of  yore, 
I  smiled  on  a  portly  little  man 

I  had  never  seen  before! — 

Grave  as  a  judge  in  courtliness— 

Professor-like  and  bland— 
A  little  fat  doctor  and  nothing  less, 

With  his  hat  in  his  kimboed  hand. 
91 


THE  LITTLE   FAT  DOCTOR 

But  how  we  talked  old  times,  and  "  chaffed  " 
Each  other  with  "Minnie,"  and  "  Jim"— 

And  how  the  little  fat  doctor  laughed, 
And  how  I  laughed  with  him! 

"  And  it's  pleasant,"  I  thought,  "  though  I 
yearn  to  see 

The  face  of  the  youth  that  was, 
To  know  no  boy  could  smile  on  me 

As  the  little  fat  doctor  does!" 


92 


THE  SHOEMAKER 

THOU  Poet,  who,  like  any  lark, 

Dost  whet  thy  beak  and  trill 
From  misty  morn  till  murky  dark, 

Nor  ever  pipe  thy  fill: 
Hast  thou  not,  in  thy  cheery  note, 

One  poor  chirp  to  confer— 
One  verseful  twitter  to  devote 

Unto  the  Shoe-ma-ker? 

At  early  dawn  he  doth  peg  in 

His  noble  work  and  brave; 
And  eke  from  cark  and  worldly  sin 

He  seeketh  soles  to  save; 
And  all  day  long,  with  quip  and  song, 

Thus  stitcheth  he  the  way 
Our  feet  may  know  the  right  from  wrong, 

Nor  ever  go  a  stray. 


THE  SHOEMAKER 

Soak  kip  in  mind  the  Shoe-ma-ker, 

Nor  slight  his  lasting  fame: 
Alway  he  waxeth  tenderer 

In  warmth  of  our  acclaim;— 
Ay,  more  than  any  artisan 

We  glory  in  his  art 
Who  ne'er,  to  help  the  under  man, 

Neglects  the  upper  part. 

But  toe  the  mark  for  him,  and  heel 
Respond  to  thee  in  kine — 

Or  kid— or  calf,  shouldst  thou  reveal 
A  taste  so  superfine: 

Thus  let  him  jest— join  in  his  laugh- 
Draw  on  his  stock,  and  be 

A  shoer'd  there's  no  rival  half- 
Sole  liberal  as  he. 

Then,  Poet,  hail  the  Shoe-ma-ker 

For  all  his  goodly  deeds,— 
Yea,  bless  him  free  for  booting  thee— 

The  first  of  all  thy  needs! 
And  when  at  last  his  eyes  grow  dim, 

And  nerveless  drops  his  clamp, 
In  golden  shoon  pray  think  of  him 

Upon  his  latest  tramp. 
94 


THE  OLD  RETIRED  SEA-CAPTAIN 

THE  old  sea-captain  has  sailed  the  seas 

So  long,  that  the  waves  at  mirth, 
Or  the  waves  gone  wild,  and  the  crests  of  these, 

Were  as  near  playmates  from  birth: 
He  has  loved  both  the  storm  and  the  calm,  because 

They  seemed  as  his  brothers  twain,— 
The  flapping  sail  was  his  soul's  applause, 

And  his  rapture,  the  roaring  main. 

But  now— like  a  battered  hulk  seems  he, 

Cast  high  on  a  foreign  strand, 
Though  he  feels  "  in  port,"  as  it  need  must  be, 

And  the  stay  of  a  daughter's  hand- 
Yet  ever  the  round  of  the  listless  hours,— 

His  pipe,  in  the  languid  air— 
The  grass,  the  trees,  and  the  garden  flowers, 

And  the  strange  earth  everywhere! 
95 


THE  OLD   RETIRED   SEA-CAPTAIN 

And  so  betimes  he  is  restless  here 

In  this  little  inland  town, 
With  never  a  wing  in  the  atmosphere 

But  the  windmill's,  up  and  down; 
His  daughter's  home  in  this  peaceful  vale, 

And  his  grandchild  'twixt  his  knees— 
But  never  the  hail  of  a  passing  sail, 

Nor  the  surge  of  the  angry  seas! 

He  quits  his  pipe,  and  he  snaps  its  neck— 

Would  speak,  though  he  coughs  instead, 
Then  paces  the  porch  like  a  quarter-deck 

With  a  reeling  mast  o'erhead! 
Ho!  the  old  sea-captain's  cheeks  glow  warm, 

And  his  eyes  gleam  grim  and  weird, 
As  he  mutters  about,  like  a  thunder-storm, 

In  the  cloud  of  his  beetling  beard. 


96 


ROBERT  BURNS  WILSON 

WHAT  intuition  named  thee?— Through  what  thrill 
Of  the  awed  soul  came  the  command  divine 
Into  the  mother-heart,  foretelling  thine 
Should  palpitate  with  his  whose  raptures  will 
Sing  on  while  daisies  bloom  and  lavrocks  trill 
Their  undulating  ways  up  through  the  fine 
Fair  mists  of  heavenly  reaches?    Thy  pure  line 
Falls  as  the  dew  of  anthems,  quiring  still 
The  sweeter  since  the  Scottish  singer  raised 
His  voice  therein,  and,  quit  of  every  stress 
Of  earthly  ache  and  longing  and  despair, 
Knew  certainly  each  simple  thing  he  praised 
Was  no  less  worthy,  for  its  lowliness, 
Than  any  joy  of  all  the  glory  There. 


97 


TO  THE  SERENADER 

TINKLE  on,  0  sweet  guitar, 

Let  the  dancing  fingers 
Loiter  where  the  low  notes  are 

Blended  with  the  singer's: 
Let  the  midnight  pour  the  moon's 

Mellow  wine  of  glory 
Down  upon  him  through  the  tune's 

Old  romantic  story! 

I  am  listening,  my  love, 

Through  the  cautious  lattice, 
Wondering  why  the  stars  above 

All  are  blinking  at  us; 
Wondering  if  his  eyes  from  there 

Catch  the  moonbeam's  shimmer 
As  it  lights  the  robe  I  wear 

With  a  ghostly  glimmer. 
98 


TO  THE  SERENADER 

Lilt  thy  song,  and  lute  away 

In  the  wildest  fashion:— 
Pour  thy  rippling  roundelay 

O'er  the  heights  of  passion!— 
Flash  it  down  the  fretted  strings 

Till  thy  mad  lips,  missing 
All  but  smothered  whisperings, 

Press  this  rose  I'm  kissing. 


99 


THE  WIFE-BLESSED 


IN  youth  he  wrought,  with  eyes  ablur, 
Lorn-faced  and  long  of  hair — 

In  youth— in  youth  he  painted  her 
A  sister  of  the  air— 

Could  clasp  her  not,  but  felt  the  stir 
Of  pinions  everywhere. 

n 

She  lured  his  gaze,  in  braver  days, 
And  tranced  him  sirenwise; 

And  he  did  paint  her,  through  a  haze 
Of  sullen  paradise, 

With  scars  of  kisses  on  her  face 
And  embers  in  her  eyes. 
100 


THE  WIFE-BLESSED 

III 

And  now— nor  dream  nor  wild  conceit- 
Though  faltering,  as  before- 
Through  tears  he  paints  her,  as  is  meet, 

Tracing  the  dear  face  o'er 
With  lilied  patience  meek  and  sweet 
As  Mother  Mary  wore. 


101 


SISTER  JONES'S  CONFESSION 

^ 
I  THOUGHT  the  deacon  liked  me,  yit 

I  warn't  adzackly  shore  of  it— 
Fer,  mind  ye,  time  and  time  ag*in, 
When  jiners  'ud  be  comin'  in, 
I'd  seed  him  shakin'  hands  as  free 
With  all  the  sistern  as  with  me! 
But  jurin'  last  Revival,  where 
He  called  on  me  to  lead  in  prayer, 
An'  kneeled  there  with  me,  side  by  side, 
A-whisper'n'  "  he  felt  sanctified 
Jes  tetchin'  of  my  gyarment's  hem,"— 
That  settled  things  as  fur  as  them- 
Thare  other  wimmin  was  concerned!— 
And— well!— I  know  I  must  V  turned 
A  dozen  colors!— Flurried?— la!— 
No  mortal  sinner  never  saw 
A  gladder  widder  than  the  one 
A-kneelin'  there  and  wonderun* 
Who'd  pray!— So  glad,  upon  my  word, 
I  railly  couldn't  thank  the  Lord! 
102 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  WANDERING  FOOT 

ALL  hope  of  rest  withdrawn  me! — 

What  dread  command  hath  put 
This  awful  curse  upon  me— 

The  curse  of  the  wandering  foot? 
Forward  and  backward  and  thither, 

And  hither  and  yon  again- 
Wandering  ever!    And  whither? 

Answer  them,  God!    Amen. 

The  blue  skies  are  far  o'er  me— 

The  bleak  fields  near  below: 
Where  the  mother  that  bore  me?— 

Where  her  grave  in  the  snow? — 
Glad  in  her  trough  of  a  coffin— 

The  sad  eyes  frozen  shut 
That  wept  so  often,  often, 

The  curse  of  the  wandering  foot! 
103 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  WANDERING  FOOT 

Here  in  your  marts  I  care  not 
Whatsoever  ye  think. 

Good  folk  many  who  dare  not 
Give  me  to  eat  and  drink: 

Give  me  to  sup  of  your  pity- 
Feast  me  on  prayers!— 0  ye, 

Met  I  your  Christ  in  the  city, 
He  would  fare  forth  with  me~ 

Forward  and  onward  and  thither, 

And  hither  again  and  yon, 
With  milk  for  our  drink  together 

And  honey  to  feed  upon— 
Nor  hope  of  rest  withdrawn  us, 

Since  the  one  Father  put 
The  blessed  curse  upon  us— 

The  curse  of  the  wandering  foot. 


104 


A  MONUMENT  FOR  THE  SOLDIERS 

A  MONUMENT  for  the  Soldiers! 

And  what  will  ye  build  it  of? 
Can  ye  build  it  of  marble,  or  brass,  or  bronze, 

Outlasting  the  Soldiers'  love? 
Can  ye  glorify  it  with  legends 

As  grand  as  their  blood  hath  writ 
From  the  inmost  shrine  of  this  land  of  thine 

To  the  outermost  verge  of  it? 

And  the  answer  came:  We  would  build  it 

Out  of  our  hopes  made  sure, 
And  out  of  our  purest  prayers  and  tears, 

And  out  of  our  faith  secure: 
We  would  build  it  out  of  the  great  white  truths 

Their  death  hath  sanctified, 
And  the  sculptured  forms  of  the  men  in  arms, 

And  their  faces  ere  they  died. 
105 


A  MONUMENT  FOR  THE  SOLDIERS 

And  what  heroic  figures 

Can  the  sculptor  carve  in  stone? 
Can  the  marble  breast  be  made  to  bleed, 

And  the  marble  lips  to  moan? 
Can  the  marble  brow  be  fevered? 

And  the  marble  eyes  be  graved 
To  look  their  last,  as  the  flag  floats  past, 

On  the  country  they  have  saved? 

And  the  answer  came:  The  figures 

Shall  all  be  fair  and  brave, 
And,  as  befitting,  as  pure  and  white 

As  the  stars  above  their  grave! 
The  marble  lips,  and  breast  and  brow 

Whereon  the  laurel  lies, 
Bequeath  us  right  to  guard  the  flight 

Of  the  old  flag  in  the  skies! 

A  monument  for  the  Soldiers! 

Built  of  a  people's  love, 
And  blazoned  and  decked  and  panoplied 

With  the  hearts  ye  build  it  of! 
And  see  that  ye  build  it  stately, 

In  pillar  and  niche  and  gate, 
And  high  in  pose  as  the  souls  of  those 

It  would  commemorate! 
106 


THE  RIVAL 

I  so  loved  once,  when  Death  came  by  I  hid 

Away  my  face, 
And  all  my  sweetheart's  tresses  she  undid 

To  make  my  hiding-place. 

The  dread  shade  passed  me  thus  unheeding;  and 

I  turned  me  then 

To  calm  my  love— kiss  down  her  shielding  hand 
And  comfort  her  again. 

And  lo!  she  answered  not:  And  she  did  sit 

All  fixedly, 
With  her  fair  face  and  the  sweet  smile  of  it, 

In  love  with  Death,  not  me. 


107 


IRY  AND   BILLY  AND  JO 

A  TINTYPE 

IRY  an'  Billy  an'  Jo!— 

Iry  an'  Billy's  the  boys, 
An'  Jo's  their  dog,  you  know,— 
Their  pictures  took  all  in  a  row. 

Bet  they  kin  kick  up  a  noise— 

Iry  an'  Billy,  the  boys, 
An'  that-air  little  dog  Jo! 

fry's  the  one  'at  stands 

Up  there  a-lookin'  so  mild 
An'  meek— with  his  hat  in  his  hands, 

Like  such  a  'bediant  child— 
(Sakes-alivef)—A.n'  Billy  he  sets 
In  the  cheer  an'  holds  onto  Jo  an'  sweats 
Hisse'f,  a-lookin'  so  good!  Ho-ho! 
Iry  an'  Billy  an*  Jo! 

Yit  the  way  them  boys,  you  know, 

Usen  to  jes  turn  in 
An'  fight  over  that  dog  Jo 

Wuz  a  burnin'-shame-an'-a-sm!— 
108 


IRY  AND   BILLY  AND  JO 

Iry  he'd  argy  'at,  by  gee-whizz! 
That-air  little  Jo-dog  wuz  his  !— 
An'  Billy  he'd  claim  it  wuzn't  so— 
'Cause  the  dog  wuz  hisn  /—An'  at  it  they'd  go, 
Nip-an'-tugg,  tooth-an'-toe-nail,  you  know— 
Iry  an'  Billy  an'  Jo! 

But  their  Pa— (He  wuz  the  marshal  then) — 

He  'tended-like  'at  he  jerked  'em  up; 
An'  got  a  jury  o'  Brick-yard  men 
An'  helt  a  trial  about  the  pup: 
An'  he  says  he  jes  like  to  V  died 
When  the  rest  o'  us  town-boys  testified— 
Regarding  you  know, 
Iry  an'  Billy  an'  Jo.— 

'Cause  we  all  knowed,  when  the  Gypsies  they 
Camped  down  here  by  the  crick  last  Fall, 
They  brung  Jo  with  'em,  an'  give  him  away 

To  Iry  an'  Billy  fer  nothin'  at  all!— 
So  the  jury  fetched  in  the  verdick  so 

Jo  he  ain't  neether  o'  theirn  fer  shore- 
He's  both  their  dog,  an'  jes  no  more! 
An'  so 

They've  quit  quarrellin'  long  ago, 
Iry  an'  Billy  an'  Jo. 
109 


A  WRAITH  OF  SUMMER-TIME 

IN  its  color,  shade  and  shine, 

Twas  a  summer  warm  as  wine, 

With  an  effervescent  flavoring  of  flowered 

bough  and  vine, 
And  a  fragrance  and  a  taste 
Of  ripe  roses  gone  to  waste, 
And  a  dreamy  sense  of  sun-  and  moon-  and 

starlight  interlaced. 

Twas  a  summer  such  as  broods 

O'er  enchanted  solitudes, 

Where  the  hand  of  Fancy  leads  us  through 

voluptuary  moods, 
And  with  lavish  love  outpours 
All  the  wealth  of  out-of-doors, 
And  woos  our  feet  o'er  velvet  paths  and 

honeysuckle  floors. 
110 


A   WRAITH   OF  SUMMER-TIME 

Twas  a  summer-time  long  dead,— 

And  its  roses,  white  and  red, 

And  its  reeds  and  water-  lilies  down  along 

the  river-bed,— 
0  they  all  are  ghostly  things— 
For  the  ripple  never  sings, 
And  the  rocking  lily  never  even  rustles  as  it 

rings! 


HER  BEAUTIFUL  EYES 

0  HER  beautiful  eyes!  they  are  as  blue  as  the  dew 
On  the  violet's  bloom  when  the  morning  is  new, 
And  the  light  of  their  love  is  the  gleam  of  the  sun 
O'er  the  meadows  of  Spring  where  the  quick  shadows 

run: 
As  the  morn  shifts  the  mists  and  the  clouds  from  the 

skies— 
So  I  stand  in  the  dawn  of  her  beautiful  eyes. 

And  her  beautiful  eyes  are  as  mid-day  to  me, 
When  the  lily-bell  bends  with  the  weight  of  the  bee, 
And  the  throat  of  the  thrush  is  a-pulse  in  the  heat, 
And  the  senses  are  drugged  with  the  subtle  and  sweet 
And  delirious  breaths  of  the  air's  lullabies— 
So  I  swoon  in  the  noon  of  her  beautiful  eyes. 

112 


HER   BEAUTIFUL  EYES 

0  her  beautiful  eyes!  they  have  smitten  mine  own 

As  a  glory  glanced  down  from  the  glare  of  The  Throne; 

And  I  reel,  and  I  falter  and  fall,  as  afar 

Fell  the  shepherds  that  looked  on  the  mystical  Star, 

And  yet  dazed  in  the  tidings  that  bade  them  arise— 

So  I  grope  through  the  night  of  her  beautiful  eyes. 


113 


DOT  LEEDLE  BOY 

OT'S  a  leedle  Gristmas  story 

Dot  I  told  der  leedle  folks— 
Und  I  vant  you  stop  dot  laughin* 

Und  grackin'  funny  jokes!— 
So  help  me  Peter-Moses! 

Ot's  no  time  for  monkeyshine', 
Ober  I  vas  told  you  somedings 

Of  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine! 

Ot  vas  von  cold  Vinter  vedder, 

Ven  der  snow  vas  all  about— 
Dot  you  have  to  chop  der  hatchet 

Eef  you  got  der  sauerkraut! 
Und  der  cheekens  on  der  hind  leg 

Vas  standin'  in  der  shine 
Der  sun  shmile  out  dot  morning 

On  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine. 
114 


DOT   LEEDLE   BOY 

He  vas  yoost  a  leedle  baby 

Not  bigger  as  a  doll 
Dot  time  I  got  acquaintet— 

Ach!  you  ought  to  heard  'im  squall!- 
I  grackys!  dot's  der  moosic 

Ot  make  me  feel  so  fine 
Ven  first  I  vas  been  marriet — 

Oh,  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine! 

He  look'  yoost  like  his  fader! — 

So,  ven  der  vimmen  said, 
"  Vot  a  purty  leedle  baby!" 

Katrina  shake  der  head.  .  .  . 
I  dink  she  must  'a'  notice 

Dot  der  baby  vas  a-gryin', 
Und  she  cover  up  der  blankets 

Of  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine. 

Vel,  ven  he  vas  got  bigger, 

Dot  he  grawl  und  bump  his  nose, 
Und  make  der  table  over, 

Und  molasses  on  his  glothes— 
Dot  make  'im  all  der  sveeter,— 

So  I  say  to  my  Katrine, 
"  Better  you  vas  quit  a-shpankin* 

Dot  leedle  boy  of  mine!" 
115 


DOT  LEEDLE  BOY 

No  more  he  vas  older 

As  about  a  dozen  months 
He  speak  der  English  language 

Und  der  German— bote  at  vonce! 
Und  he  dringk  his  glass  of  lager 

Like  a  Londsman  fon  der  Rhine — 
Und  I  klingk  my  glass  togeder 

Mit  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine! 

I  vish  you  could  'a'  seen  id— 

Ven  he  glimb  up  on  der  chair 
Und  shmash  der  lookin'-glasses 

Ven  he  try  to  comb  his  hair 
Mit  a  hammer!— Und  Katrina 

Say,  "Dot's  an  ugly  sign!" 
But  I  laugh  und  vink  my  fingers 

At  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine. 

But  vonce,  dot  Vinter  morning, 

He  shlip  out  in  der  snow 
Mitout  no  stockin's  on  'im.— 

He  say  he  "  vant  to  go 
Und  fly  some  mit  der  birdies!" 

Und  ve  give  'im  medi-cine 
Ven  he  catch  der  "  parrygoric  "— 

Dot  leedle  boy  of  mine! 
116 


DOT  LEEDLE  BOY 

Und  so  I  set  und  nurse  'im, 

Vile  der  Gristmas  vas  come  roun', 
Und  I  told  'im  T>out  "Kriss  Kringle," 

How  he  come  der  chimbly  down: 
Und  I  ask  'im  eef  he  love  'im 

Eef  he  bring  'im  someding  fine? 
"Nicht  besser  as  mem  fader? 

Say  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine. — 

Und  he  put  his  arms  aroun'  me 

Und  hug  so  close  und  tight, 
I  hear  der  gclock  a-tickin' 

All  der  balance  of  der  night!  .  .  • 
Someding  make  me  feel  so  funny 

Ven  I  say  to  my  Katrine, 
"Let  us  go  und  fill  der  stockin's 

Of  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine." 

Veil.— Ve  buyed  a  leedle  horses 

Dot  you  pull  'im  mit  a  shtring, 
Und  a  leedle  fancy  jay-bird— 

Eef  you  vant  to  hear  'im  sing 
You  took  'im  by  der  topknot 

Und  yoost  blow  in  behine— 
Und  dot  make  much  spectakel 

For  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine! 
117 


DOT  LEEDLE  BOY 

Und  gandies,  nuts  und  raizens— 

Und  I  buy  a  leedle  drum 
Dot  I  vant  to  hear  'im  rattle 

Ven  der  Gristmas  morning  come! 
Und  a  leedle  shmall  tin  rooster 

Dot  vould  crow  so  loud  und  fine 
Ven  he  sqveeze  'im  in  der  morning, 

Dot  leedle  boy  of  mine! 

Und— vile  ve  vas  a-fixin'— 

Dot  leedle  boy  vake  out! 
I  fought  he  been  a-dreamin' 

"Kriss  Kringle"  vas  about,— 
For  he  say— "Dot's  him!— I  see  'im 

Mit  der  shtars  dot  make  der  shine!" 
Und  he  yoost  keep  on  a-gryin'— 

Dot  leedle  boy  of  mine,— 

Und  gottin'  vorse  und  vorser— 

Und  tumble  on  der  bed  I 
So— ven  der  doctor  seen  id- 

He  kindo'  shake  his  head, 
Und  feel  his  pulse— und  visper, 

"  Der  boy  is  a-dyin'." 
You  dink  I  could  believe  id?— 

Dot  leedle  boy  of  mine  ? 
118 


DOT   LEEDLE   BOY 

I  told  you,  friends— dot's  someding, 

Der  last  time  dot  he  speak 
Und  say,  "  Goot-bye,  Kriss  Kringle!" 

—Dot  make  me  feel  so  veak 
I  yoost  kneel  down  und  drimble, 

Und  bur-sed  out  a-gryin', 
"  Mein  Gott,  mein  Gott  im  Himmel ! — 
Dot  leedle  boy  of  mine  !" 

....... 

Der  sun  don't  shine  dot  Gristmas! 

.  .  .  Eef  dot  leedle  boy  vould  liff'd- 
No  deefer-en'!  for  Heaven  vas 

His  leedle  Gristmas-gift!  .  .  . 
Und  der  rooster,  und  der  gandy, 

Und  me— und  my  Katrine-- 
Und  der  jay-bird—is  a-vaiting 

For  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine. 


119 


DONN  PIATT  OF  MAC-O-CHEE 


DONN  PIATT— of  Mac-o-chee,— 
Not  the  one  of  History, 
Who,  with  flaming  tongue  and  pen, 
Scathes  the  vanities  of  men; 
Not  the  one  whose  biting  wit 
Cuts  pretence  and  etches  it 
On  the  brazen  brow  that  dares 
Filch  the  laurel  that  it  wears: 
Not  the  Donn  Piatt  whose  praise 
Echoes  in  the  noisy  ways 
Of  the  faction,  onward  led 
By  the  statesman!— But,  instead, 
Give  the  simple  man  to  me,— 
Donn  Piatt  of  Mac-o-chee! 
120 


DONN   PIATT  OF  MAC-O-CHEE 

II 

Donn  Piatt  of  Mac-o-chee! 

Branches  of  the  old  oak-tree, 

Drape  him  royally  in  fine 

Purple  shade  and  golden  shine! 

Emerald  plush  of  sloping  lawn 

Be  the  throne  he  sits  upon! 

And,  0  Summer  Sunset,  thou 

Be  his  crown,  and  gild  a  brow 

Softly  smoothed  and  soothed  and  calmed 

By  the  breezes,  mellow-palmed 

As  Erata's  white  hand  agleam 

On  the  forehead  of  a  dream.— 

So  forever  rule  o'er  me, 

Donn  Piatt  of  Mac-o-chee! 

ra 

Donn  Piatt  of  Mac-o-chee: 
Through  a  lilied  memory 
Plays  the  wayward  little  creek 
Round  thy  home  at  hide-and-seek — 
As  I  see  and  hear  it,  still 
Romping  round  the  wooded  hill, 
121 


DONN   PIATT  OF  MAC-O-CHEE 

Till  its  laugh-and-babble  blends 
With  the  silence  while  it  sends 
Glances  back  to  kiss  the  sight, 
In  its  babyish  delight, 
Ere  it  strays  amid  the  gloom 
Of  the  glens  that  burst  in  bloom 
Of  the  rarest  rhyme  for  thee, 
Donn  Piatt  of  Mac-o-chee! 

IV 

Donn  Piatt  of  Mac-o-chee! 
What  a  darling  destiny 
Has  been  mine— to  meet  him  there- 
Lolling  in  an  easy-chair 
On  the  terrace,  while  he  told 
Reminiscences  of  old — 
Letting  my  cigar  die  out, 
Hearing  poems  talked  about; 
And  entranced  to  hear  him  say 
Gentle  things  of  Thackeray, 
Dickens,  Hawthorne,  and  the  rest, 
Known  to  him  as  host  and  guest- 
Known  to  him  as  he  to  me— 
Donn  Piatt  of  Mac-o-chee! 
122 


CHAIRLEY  BURKE'S  IN  TOWN 

IT'S  Chairley  Burke's  in  town,  b'ys!    He's  down  til 

"  Jamesy's  Place," 
Wid  a  bran'-new  shave  upon  'urn,  an'  the  fhwhuskers 

aff  his  face; 
He's  quit  the  Section-Gang  last  night,  an'  yez  can  chalk 

it  down 
There's  goin'  to  be  the  divil's  toime,  since  Chairley 

Burke's  in  town. 

Ye'll  know  'urn  by  the  neck  av  'urn  behind— the  tan  an* 

fair 

The  barber  left  he  overfilled  before  he  mowed  a  hair; 
Ye'll  know  'um  by  the  ja'nty  hat  juist  bought  he's 

wearin'  now— 
But  Chairley— He'll  not  miss  it  in  the  mornin'  onyhow! 

It's  treatin'  iv*ry  b'y  he  is,  an'  poundin'  on  the  bar 
Till  iv'ry  man  he's  dhrinkin'  wid  musht  shmoke  a  foine 
cigar; 

123 


CHAIRLEY   BURKE'S  IN  TOWN 

An'  Missus  Murphy's  little  Kate,  that's  coomin'  there  for 
beer, 

Can't  pay  wan  cint  the  bucketful,  the  whilst  that  Chair- 
ley's  here! 

He's  joompin'  oor  the  tops  av  shtools,  the  both  f  orninsht 

an'  back! 
He'll  lave  yez  pick  the  blessed  flure,  an'  walk  the  straight- 

est  crack! 
He's  liftin'  barrels  wid  his  teeth,  an'  singin'  "  Garry 

Owen," 
Till  all  the  house  be  shtrikin'  hands,  since  Chairley 

Burke's  in  town,, 

He'll  sink  the  glitther  av  his  eye  a-dancin'  deep  an'  dim 
The  toime  yez  tie  his  hands  behind  an'  thin  lave  go  av 

him!— 
An'  fwhat's  the  knots  av  mortal  man  ag'insht  the  nimble 

twisht 
An'  shlim  an'  shlender  soopleness  that  he  have  in  his 

wrisht! 

The  Road-Yaird  hands  coomes  dhroppin*  in,  an'  niver 

goin'  back; 
An'  there's  two  freights  upon  the  switch— the  wan  on 

aither  track— 

124 


CHAIRLEY   BURKE'S  IN  TOWN 

An'  Mr.  Gearry,  from  The  Shops,  he's  mad  enough  to 

shwear, 
An'  durstn't  spake  a  word  but  grin,  the  whilst  that 

Chairley's  there! 

Och!  Chairley!  Chairley!  Chairley  Burke!  ye  divil,  wid 

yer  ways 
Av  dhrivin'  all  the  throubles  aff,  these  dhark  an'  ghloomy 

days! 
Ohone!  that  it's  meself,  wid  all  the  graifs  I  have  to 

dhrown, 
Must  lave  me  pick  to  resht  a  bit,  since  Chairley  Burke's 

in  town. 


125 


THE  QUIET  LODGER 

THE  man  that  rooms  next  door  to  me: 

Two  weeks  ago,  this  very  night, 
He  took  possession  quietly, 
As  any  other  lodger  might— 

But  why  the  room  next  mine  should  so 
Attract  him  I  was  vexed  to  know,— 
Because  his  quietude,  in  fine, 
Was  far  superior  to  mine. 

"  Now,  I  like  quiet,  truth  to  tell, 

A  tranquil  life  is  sweet  to  me— 
But  this,"  I  sneered,  "  suits  me  too  well.— 
He  shuts  his  door  so  noiselessly, 
And  glides  about  so  very  mute, 
In  each  mysterious  pursuit, 
His  silence  is  oppressive,  and 
Too  deep  for  me  to  understand." 
126 


THE  QUIET  LODGER 

Sometimes,  forgetting  book  or  pen, 

I've  found  my  head  in  breathless  poise 
Lifted,  and  dropped  in  shame  again, 
Hearing  some  alien  ghost  of  noise— 
Some  smothered  sound  that  seemed  to  be 
A  trunk-lid  dropped  unguardedly, 
Or  the  crisp  writhings  of  some  quire 
Of  manuscript  thrust  in  the  fire. 

Then  I  have  climbed,  and  closed  in  vain 

My  transom,  opening  in  the  hall; 
Or  close  against  the  window-pane 
Have  pressed  my  fevered  face,— but  all 
The  day  or  night  without  held  not 
A  sight  or  sound  or  counter-thought 
To  set  my  mind  one  instant  free 
Of  this  man's  silent  mastery. 

And  often  I  have  paced  the  floor 

With  muttering  anger,  far  at  night, 
Hearing,  and  cursing,  o'er  and  o'er, 
The  muffled  noises,  and  the  light 
And  tireless  movements  of  this  guest 
Whose  silence  raged  above  my  rest 
127 


THE  QUIET   LODGER 

Hoarser  than  howling  storms  at  sea — 
The  man  that  rooms  next  door  to  me. 

But  twice  or  thrice,  upon  the  stair, 

I've  seen  his  face— most  strangely  wan, — 
Each  time  upon  me  unaware 
He  came— smooth'd  past  me,  and  was  gone. 
So  like  a  whisper  he  went  by, 
I  listened  after,  ear  and  eye, 
Nor  could  my  chafing  fancy  tell 
The  meaning  of  one  syllable. 

Last  night  I  caught  him,  face  to  face,— 

He  entering  his  room,  and  I 
Glaring  from  mine:  He  paused  a  space 
And  met  my  scowl  all  shrinkingly, 
But  with  full  gentleness:  The  key 
Turned  in  his  door— and  I  could  see 
It  tremblingly  withdrawn  and  put 
Inside,  and  then— the  door  was  shut. 

Then  silence.    Silence!— why,  last  night 

The  silence  was  tumultuous, 
And  thundered  on  till  broad  daylight;— 

0  never  has  it  stunned  me  thus!— 
128 


THE  QUIET  LODGER 

It  rolls,  and  moans,  and  mumbles  yet.— 
Ah,  God!  how  loud  may  silence  get 
When  man  mocks  at  a  brother  man 
Who  answers  but  as  silence  can! 

The  silence  grew,  and  grew,  and  grew, 
Till  at  high  noon  to-day  'twas  heard 
Throughout  the  house;  and  men  flocked  through 
The  echoing  halls,  with  faces  blurred 
With  pallor,  gloom,  and  fear,  and  awe, 
And  shuddering  at  what  they  saw, — 
The  quiet  lodger,  as  he  lay 
Stark  of  the  life  he  cast  away. 


So  strange  to-night— those  voices  there, 

Where  all  so  quiet  was  before: 
They  say  the  face  has  not  a  care 
Nor  sorrow  in  it  any  more.  .  .  . 

His  latest  scrawl:— "Forgive  me— You 
Who  prayed,  '  They  know  not  what  they 

do!'" 

My  tears  will  never  let  me  see 
This  man  that  rooms  next  door  to  me! 

129 


THE  WATCHES  OF  THE  NIGHT 

0  THE  waiting  in  the  watches  of  the  night! 

In  the  darkness,  desolation,  and  contrition  and  affright; 

The  awful  hush  that  holds  us  shut  away  from  all 

delight: 

The  ever-weary  memory  that  ever  weary  goes 
Recounting  ever  over  every  aching  loss  it  knows— 
The  ever-weary  eyelids  gasping  ever  for  repose — 
In  the  dreary,  weary  watches  of  the  night! 

Dark— stifling  dark— the  watches  of  the  night! 
With  tingling  nerves  at  tension,  how  the  blackness 

flashes  white 

With  spectral  visitations  smitten  past  the  inner  sight! — 
What  shuddering  sense  of  wrongs  we've  wrought 

that  may  not  be  redressed— 
Of  tears  we  did  not  brush  away— of  lips  we  left 

unpressed, 
And  hands  that  we  let  fall,  with  all  their  loyalty 

unguessed ! 

Ah!  the  empty,  empty  watches  of  the  night! 
130 


THE  WATCHES  OF  THE  NIGHT 

What  solace  in  the  watches  of  the  night?— 

What  frailest  staff  of  hope  to  stay — what  faintest  shaft 

of  light? 
Do  we  dream,  and  dare  believe  it,  that  by  never  weight  of 

right 
Of  our  own  poor  weak  deservings,  we  shall  win  the 

dawn  at  last— 
Our  famished  souls  find  freedom  from  this  penance 

for  the  past, 
In  a  faith  that  leaps  and  lightens  from  the  gloom 

that  flees  aghast— 
Shall  we  survive  the  watches  of  the  night? 

ONE  leads  us  through  the  watches  of  the  night — 
By  the  ceaseless  intercession  of  our  loved  ones  lost  to 

sight 
He  is  with  us  through  all  trials,  in  His  mercy  and  His 

might;— 
With  our  mothers  there  about  Him,  all  our  sorrow 

disappears, 
Till  the  silence  of  our  sobbing  is  the  prayer  the 

Master  hears, 
And  His  hand  is  laid  upon  us  with  the  tenderness  of 

tears 

In  the  waning  of  the  watches  of  the  night. 
131 


HIS  VIGIL 

CLOSE  the  book  and  dim  the  light, 
I  shall  read  no  more  to-night. 
No— I  am  not  sleepy,  dear- 
Do  not  go:  sit  by  me  here 
In  the  darkness  and  the  deep 
Silence  of  the  watch  I  keep. 
Something  in  your  presence  so 
Soothes  me— as  in  long  age 
I  first  felt  your  hand— as  now— 
In  the  darkness  touch  my  brow: 
I've  no  other  wish  than  you 
Thus  should  fold  mine  eyelids  to, 
Saying  naught  of  sigh  or  tear- 
Just  as  God  were  sitting  here. 


132 


THE  PLAINT  HUMAN 

SEASON  of  snows,  and  season  of  flowers, 

Seasons  of  loss  and  gain!— 
Since  grief  and  joy  must  alike  be  ours, 

Why  do  we  still  complain? 

Ever  our  failing,  from  sun  to  sun, 

0  my  intolerant  brother:— 
We  want  just  a  little  too  little  of  one, 

And  much  too  much  of  the  other. 


133 


BY  ANY  OTHER  NAME 

FIRST  the  teacher  called  the  roll, 

Clos't  to  the  beginning 
"Addeliney  Bowersox!" 

Set  the  school  a-grinnin*. 
Winter-time,  and  stingin'-cold 

When  the  session  took  up— 
Cold  as  we  all  looked  at  her, 

Though  she  couldn't  look  up! 

Total  stranger  to  us,  too— 

Country  folks  ain't  allus 
Nigh  so  shameful  unpolite 

As  some  people  call  us!— 
But  the  honest  facts  is,  then, 

Addeliney  Bower- 
Sox's  feelin's  was  so  hurt 

She  cried  half  an  hour! 
134 


BY   ANY   OTHER  NAME 

My  dest  was  acrost  from  hern: 

Set  and  watched  her  tryin* 
To  p'tend  she  didn't  keer, 

And  a  kind  o'  dryin' 
Up  her  tears  with  smiles— tel  I 

Thought,  "Well,  ' Addeliney 
Bowersox '  is  plain,  but  she's 

Purty  as  a  piney  ! " 

r  •  f  •  t  • 

It's  be'n  many  of  a  year 

Sence  that  most  oncommon 
Cur'ous  name  o'  Bowersox 

Struck  me  so  abomin- 
Nubble  and  outlandish-like!— 

I  changed  it  to  Adde- 
Liney  Daubenspeck—and  that 

Nearly  killed  her  Daddy! 


185 


TO  AN  IMPORTUNATE  GHOST 

GET  gone,  thou  most  uncomfortable  ghost! 

Thou  really  dost  annoy  me  with  thy  thin 

Impalpable  transparency  of  grin; 
And  the  vague,  shadowy  shape  of  thee  almost 
Hath  vexed  me  beyond  boundary  and  coast 

Of  my  broad  patience.    Stay  thy  chattering  chin, 

And  reel  the  tauntings  of  thy  vain  tongue  in, 
Nor  tempt  me  further  with  thy  vaporish  boast 

That  I  am  helpless  to  combat  thee!    Well, 
Have  at  thee,  then!    Yet  if  a  doom  most  dire 

Thou  wouldst  escape,  flee  whilst  thou  canst!— 

Revile 
Me  not,  Miasmic  Mist!— Rank  Air!  retire! 

One  instant  longer  an  thou  haunt'st  me,  I'll 
Inhale  thee,  0  thou  wraith  despicable! 


136 


THE  QUARREL 

THEY  faced  each  other:  Topaz-brown 
And  lambent  burned  her  eyes  and  shot 
Sharp  flame  at  his  of  amethyst.— 
"I  hate  you!    Go,  and  be  forgot 
As  death  forgets! "  their  glitter  hissed 
(So  seemed  it)  in  their  hatred.    Ho! 
Dared  any  mortal  front  her  so?— 
Tempestuous  eyebrows  knitted  down- 
Tense  nostril,  mouth— no  muscle  slack,- 
And  black— the  suffocating  black— 
The  stifling  blackness  of  her  frown! 

Ah!  but  the  lifted  face  of  her! 
And  the  twitched  lip  and  tilted  head! 
Yet  he  did  neither  wince  nor  stir, — 
Only— his  hands  clinched;  and,  instead 
Of  words,  he  answered  with  a  stare 
That  stammered  not  in  aught  it  said, 
As  might  his  voice  if  trusted  there. 
137 


THE  QUARREL 

And  what— what  spake  his  steady  gaze?— 

Was  there  a  look  that  harshly  fell 

To  scoff  her?— or  a  syllable 

Of  anger?— or  the  bitter  phrase 

That  myrrhs  the  honey  of  love's  lips, 

Or  curdles  blood  as  poison-drips? 

What  made  their  breasts  to  heave  and  swell 

As  billows  under  bows  of  ships 

In  broken  seas  on  stormy  days? 

We  may  not  know— nor  they  indeed — 

What  mercy  found  them  in  their  need. 

A  sudden  sunlight  smote  the  gloom; 

And  round  about  them  swept  a  breeze, 

With  faint  breaths  as  of  clover-bloom; 

A  bird  was  heard,  through  drone  of  bees,— 

Then,  far  and  clear  and  eerily, 

A  child's  voice  from  an  orchard-tree — 

Then  laughter,  sweet  as  the  perfume 

Of  lilacs,  could  the  hearing  see. 

And  he— 0  Love!  he  fed  thy  name 

On  bruised  kisses,  while  her  dim 

Deep  eyes,  with  all  their  inner  flame, 

Like  drowning  gems  were  turned  on  him. 

138 


THE  OLD  YEAR  AND  THE  NEW 


As  one  in  sorrow  looks  upon 
The  dead  face  of  a  loyal  friend, 

By  the  dim  light  of  New  Year's  dawn 
I  saw  the  Old  Year  end. 

Upon  the  pallid  features  lay 

The  dear  old  smile— so  warm  and  bright 
Ere  thus  its  cheer  had  died  away 

In  ashes  of  delight. 

The  hands  that  I  had  learned  to  love 
With  strength  of  passion  half  divine, 

Were  folded  now,  all  heedless  of 
The  emptiness  of  mine. 

The  eyes  that  once  had  shed  their  bright 
Sweet  looks  like  sunshine,  now  were  dull, 
139 


THE  OLD  YEAR  AND  THE  NEW 

And  ever  lidded  from  the  light 
That  made  them  beautiful. 


II 

The  chimes  of  bells  were  in  the  air, 
And  sounds  of  mirth  in  hall  and  street, 

With  pealing  laughter  everywhere 
And  throb  of  dancing  feet: 

The  mirth  and  the  convivial  din 

Of  revellers  in  wanton  glee, 
With  tunes  of  harp  and  violin 

In  tangled  harmony. 

But  with  a  sense  of  nameless  dread, 
I  turned  me,  from  the  merry  face 

Of  this  newcomer,  to  my  dead; 
And,  kneeling  there  a  space, 

I  sobbed  aloud,  all  tearfully:— 

By  this  dear  face  so  fixed  and  cold, 

0  Lord,  let  not  this  New  Year  be 
As  happy  as  the  old! 


140 


THE  HEREAFTER 

HEREAFTER!    0  we  need  not  waste 

Our  smiles  or  tears,  whate'er  befall: 
No  happiness  but  holds  a  taste 

Of  something  sweeter,  after  all;— 
No  depth  of  agony  but  feels 

Some  fragment  of  abiding  trust,— 
Whatever  Death  unlocks  or  seals, 

The  mute  beyond  is  just. 


141 


JOHN  BROWN 

WRIT  in  between  the  lines  of  his  life-deed 
We  trace  the  sacred  service  of  a  heart 
Answering  the  Divine  command,  in  every  part 
Bearing  on  human  weal:  His  love  did  feed 
The  loveless;  and  his  gentle  hands  did  lead 
The  blind,  and  lift  the  weak,  and  balm  the  smart 
Of  other  wounds  than  rankled  at  the  dart 
In  his  own  breast,  that  gloried  thus  to  bleed. 
He  served  the  lowliest  first— nay,  them  alone— 
The  most  despised  that  e'er  wreaked  vain  breath 
In  cries  of  suppliance  in  the  reign  whereat 
Red  Guilt  sate  squat  upon  her  spattered  throne.— 
For  these  doomed  there  it  was  he  went  to  death. 
God!  how  the  merest  man  loves  one  like  that  I 


142 


A  CtF  OF  TEA 

I  HAVE  sipped,  with  drooping  lashes, 

Dreamy  draughts  of  Verzenay; 
I  have  flourished  brandy-smashes 

In  the  wildest  sort  of  way; 
I  have  joked  with  "Tom  and  Jerry" 

Till  "  wee  hours  ayont  the  twal  "— 
But  I've  found  my  tea  the  very 

Safest  tipple  of  them  all! 

Tis  a  mystical  potation 

That  exceeds  in  warmth  of  glow 
And  divine  exhilaration 

All  the  drugs  of  long  ago- 
All  of  old  magicians'  potions— 

Of  Medea's  philtered  spells — 
Or  of  fabled  isles  and  oceans 

Where  the  Lotos-eater  dwells! 
143 


A   CUP  OF  TEA 

Though  I've  revelled  o'er  late  lunches 

With  blase  dramatic  stars, 
And  absorbed  their  wit  and  punches 

And  the  fumes  of  their  cigars- 
Drank  in  the  latest  story, 

With  a  cocktail  either  end,— 
I  have  drained  a  deeper  glory 

In  a  cup  of  tea,  my  friend. 

Green,  Black,  Moyune,  Formosa, 

Congo-u,  Amboy,  Pingsuey— 
No  odds  the  name  it  knows— ah, 

Fill  a  cup  of  it  for  me! 
And,  as  I  clink  my  china 

Against  your  goblet's  brim, 
My  tea  in  steam  shall  twine  a 

Fragrant  laurel  round  its  rim. 


144 


JUDITH 

0  HER  eyes  are  amber-fine — 
Dark  and  deep  as  wells  of  wine, 
While  her  smile  is  like  the  noon 
Splendor  of  a  day  of  June. 
If  she  sorrow— lo!  her  face 
It  is  like  a  flowery  space 
In  bright  meadows,  overlaid 
With  light  clouds  and  lulled  with  shade. 
If  she  laugh— it  is  the  trill 
Of  the  wayward  whippoorwill 
Over  upland  pastures,  heard 
Echoed  by  the  mocking-bird 
In  dim  thickets  dense  with  bloom 
And  blurred  cloyings  of  perfume. 
If  she  sigh— a  zephyr  swells 
Over  odorous  asphodels 
And  wan  lilies  in  lush  plots 
Of  moon-drown'd  forget-me-nots. 
145  , 


JUDITH 

Then,  the  soft  touch  of  her  hand— 
Takes  all  breath  to  understand 
What  to  liken  it  thereto!-— 
Never  rose-leaf  rinsed  with  dew 
Might  slip  soother-suave  than  slips 
Her  slow  palm,  the  while  her  lips 
Swoon  through  mine,  with  kiss  on  kiss 
Sweet  as  heated  honey  is. 


146 


THE  ARTEMUS  OF  MICHIGAN 

GRAND  HAVEN  is  in  Michigan,  and  in  possession,  too, 
Of  as  many  rare  attractions  as  our  party  ever  knew:— 
The  fine  hotel,  the  landlord,  and  the  lordly  bill  of  fare, 
And  the  dainty-neat  completeness  of  the  pretty  waiters 

there; 

The  touch  on  the  piano  in  the  parlor,  and  the  trill 
Of  the  exquisite  soprano— in  our  fancy  singing  still; 
Our  cosey  room,  its  comfort,  and  our  thousand  grateful 

tho'ts, 

And  at  our  door  the  gentle  face 
Of 

H. 

Y. 

Potts! 

His  artless  observations,  and  his  drollery  of  style, 
Bewildered  with  that  sorrowful  serenity  of  smile— 
The  eye's  elusive  twinkle,  and  the  twitching  of  the  lid, 
Like  he  didn't  go  to  say  it  and  was  sorry  that  he  did. 
0  Artemus  of  Michigan!  so  worthy  of  the  name, 
Our  manager  indorses  it,  and  Bill  Nye  does  the  same,— 

147 


THE  ARTEMUS  OF  MICHIGAN 

You  tickled  our  affection  in  so  many  tender  spots 
That  even  Recollection  laughs 
At 

H. 

Y. 

Potts! 

And  hark  ye!  0  Grand  Haven!  count  your  rare  attrac 
tions  o'er— 
The  commerce  of  your  ships  at  sea,  and  ships  along  the 

shore; 
Your  railroads,  and  your  industries,  and  interests 

untold, 
Your  Opera-House— our  lecture,  and  the  gate-receipts 

in  gold!— 
Ay,  Banner  Town  of  Michigan!  count  all  your  treasures 

through— 
Your  crowds  of  summer  tourists,  and  your  Sanitarium, 

too; 
Your  lake,  your  beach,  your  drives,  your  breezy  groves 

and  grassy  plots, 
But  head  the  list  of  all  of  these 
With 

H. 

Y. 

Potts! 
148 


THE   HOODOO 

OWNED  a  pair  o'  skates  onc't.— Traded 
Fer  'em,— stropped  'em  on  and  waded 
Up  and  down  the  crick,  a-waitin' 
Tel  she'd  freeze  up  fit  fer  skatin'. 
Mildest  winter  I  remember- 
More  like  Spring-  than  Winter-weather!- 
Didn't  frost  tel  'bout  December— 

Git  up  airly,  ketch  a  feather 
Of  it,  mayby,  'crost  the  winder — 
Sunshine  swinge  it  like  a  cinder! 

Well— I  waited— and  kep'  waitin'! 

Couldn't  see  my  money's  wo'th  in 
Them-air  skates,  and  was  no  skatin' 

Ner  no  hint  o'  ice  ner  nothin'! 
So,  one  day— along  in  airly 
Spring— I  swopped  'em  off— and  barely 
Closed  the  dicker,  'fore  the  weather 

Natchurly  jes  slipped  the  ratchet, 
And  crick— tail-race— all  together, 

Froze  so  tight,  cat  couldn't  scratch  it! 
149 


THE  RIVALS;   OR,  THE  SHOWMAN'S  RUSE 

i 

A  TRAGI-COMEDY,  IN  ONE  ACT 
PERSONS  REPRESENTED 

BILLY  MILLER         ) 

>  The  Rivals. 

JOHNNY  WILLIAMS  ) 

TOMMY  WELLS  Conspirator. 

TIME— Noon.  SCENE— Country  Town— Rear  view  of  the 
Miller  Mansion,  showing  Barn,  with  practical  loft-win 
dow  opening  on  alley-way,  with  colored-crayon  poster 
on  wall  beneath,  announcing:— "BILLY  MILLER'S  Big 
Show  and  Monstur  Circus  and  Equareum!  A  shour- 
bath  fer  Each  and  All  fer  20  pins.  This  Afternoon! 
Don't  fer  git  the  Date!"  Enter  TOMMY  WELLS  and 
JOHNNY  WILLIAMS,  who  gaze  awhile  at  poster,  TOMMY 
secretly  smiling  and  winking  at  BILLY  MILLER,  con- 
cealed  at  lofl-window  above. 

TOMMY.    [To  JOHNNY.] 

Guess  'at  Billy  hain't  got  back,— 
Can't  see  nothin'  through  the  crack— 
150 


THE  RIVALS;   OR,  THE  SHOWMAN'S  RUSE 

Can't  hear  nothin'  neether— No! 

.  .  .  Thinks  he's  got  the  dandy  show, 

Don't  he? 

JOHNNY.    [Scornfully.] 

'Course!  but  what  I  care?— 
He  hain't  got  no  show  in  there  I— 
What's  he  got  in  there  but  that 
Old  hen,  cooped  up  with  a  cat 
An'  a  turkle,  an'  that  thing 
'At  he  calls  his  "circus-ring"? 
What  a  "  drcus-ring!  "    I'd  quit ! 
Bet  mine's  twic't  as  big  as  it! 

TOMMY. 

Yes,  but  you  got  no  machine 

Wat  you  bathe  with,  painted  green, 

With  a  string  to  work  it,  guess! 

JOHNNY.    [Contemptuously^ 

Folks  don't  bathe  in  circuses  !— 
Ladies  comes  to  mine,  you  bet! 
F  got  seats  where  girls  can  set; 
An'  a  dressin'-room,  an'  all, 
Fixed  up  in  my  pony's  stall— 
151 


THE   RIVALS;   OR,  THE  SHOWMAN'S  RUSE 

Yes,  an'  F  got  carpet,  too, 
Fer  the  tumblers,  an'  a  blue 
Centre-pole! 

TOMMY. 

Well,  Billy,  he's 
Got  a  tight-rope  an'  trapeze, 
An'  a  hoop  'at  he  jumps  through 
Head-first! 

JOHNNY. 

Well,  what's  that  to  do— 
Lightin'  on  a  pile  o'  hay? 
Hain't  no  actin'  thataway! 

TOMMY. 

Don't  care  what  you  say,  he  draws 
Bigger  crowds  than  you  do,  'cause 
Sence  he  started  up,  I  know 
All  the  fellers  says  his  show 
Is  the  best-un! 

JOHNNY. 

Yes,  an'  he 

Better  not  tell  things  on  me! 
152 


THE   RIVALS;   OR,  THE  SHOWMAN'S  RUSE 

His  old  circus  hain't  no  good!— 
'Cause  he's  got  the  neighborhood 
Down  on  me  he  thinks  'at  I'm 
Coin'  to  stand  it  all  the  time; 
Thinks  ist  'cause  my  Pa  don't  low 
Me  to  fight,  he's  got  me  now, 
An'  can  say  I  lie,  an'  call 
Me  ist  anything  at  all! 
Billy  Miller  thinks  I  am 
Teard  to  say  'at  he  says  "  dam  w— 
Yes,  an'  worser  ones!  an'  I'm 
Coin'  to  tell  his  folks  sometime! — 
An'  ef  he  don't  shet  his  head 
I'll  tell  worse  'an  that  he  said 
When  he  fighted  Willie  King— 
An'  got  licked  like  ever'thing!— 
Billy  Miller  better  shin 
Down  his  Daddy's  lane  ag'in, 
Like  a  cowardy-calf,  an'  climb 
In  fer  home  another  time! 
Better— 

[Here  BILLY  leaps  down  from  the  loft  upon  his  unsuspect 
ing  victim;  and  two  minutes  later,  JOHNNY,  with  the 
half  of  a  straw  hat,  a  bleeding  nose,  and  a  straight  rent 
across  one  trouser-knee,  makes  his  inglorious— exit.] 
153 


WHAT  CHRIS'MAS  FETCHED  THE  WIGGINSES 

WINTER-TIME,  er  Summer-time, 
Of  late  years  I  notice  I'm, 
Kindo'-like,  more  subjec'  to 
What  the  weather  is.    Now,  you 
Folks  'at  lives  in  town,  I  s'pose, 
Thinks  it's  bully  when  it  snows; 
But  the  chap  'at  chops  and  hauls 
Yer  wood  fer  ye,  and  then  stalls, 
And  snapps  tuggs  and  swingletrees, 
And  then  has  to  walk  er  freeze, 
Hain't  so  much  "  stuck  on  "  the  snow 
As  stuck  in  it— Bless  ye,  no!— 
When  it's  packed,  and  sleighin's  good, 
And  church  in  the  neighborhood, 
Them  'at's  got  their  girls,  I  guess, 
Takes  'em,  likely,  more  er  less. 
Tell  the  plain  fac's  o'  the  case, 
No  men-folks  about  our  place 
154 


On'y  me  and  Pap— and  he 
'Lows  'at  young  folks'  company 
Allus  made  him  sick!    So  I 
Jes  don't  want,  and  jes  don't  try! 
Chinkypin,  the  dad-burn  town, 
'S  too  fur  off  to  loaf  aroun' 
Eether  day  er  night— and  no 
Law  compellin'  me  to  go!— 
'Less  'n  some  Old-Settlers'  Day, 
Er  big-doin's  thataway— 
Then,  to  tell  the  p'inted  fac', 
I've  went  more  so's  to  come  back 
By  old  Guthrie's  still-house,  where 
Minors  has  got  licker  there— 
That's  pervidin'  we  could  show  'em 
Old  folks  sent  fer  it  from  home! 
Visit  roun'  the  neighbers  some, 
When  the  boys  wants  me  to  come.— 
Coon-hunt  with  'em;  er  set  traps 
Fer  mussrats;  er  jes,  perhaps, 
Lay  in  roun'  the  stove,  you  know, 
And  parch  corn,  and  let  her  snow! 
Mostly,  nights  like  these,  you'll  be 
(Ef  you'  got  a  writ  fer  me) 
Ap'  to  skeer  me  up,  I  guess, 
In  about  the  Wigginses'. 
155 


WHAT  CHRIS'MAS  FETCHED  THE  WIGGINSES 

Nothin'  roun'  our  place  to  keep 

Me  at  home— with  Pap  asleep 

Tore  it's  dark;  and  Mother  in 

Mango  pickles  to  her  chin; 

And  the  girls,  all  still  as  death, 

Piecin'  quilts.— Sence  I  drawed  breath 

Twenty  year*  ago,  and  heerd 

Some  girls  whisper'n'  so's  it  'peared 

Like  they  had  a  row  o'  pins 

In  their  mouth— right  there  begins 

My  first  rickollections,  built 

On  that-air  blame'  old  piece-quilt! 

Summer-time,  it's  jes  the  same— 
'Cause  I've  noticed,— and  I  claim, 
As  I  said  afore,  I'm  more 
Subjec'  to  the  weather,  shore, 
Troachin'  my  majority, 
Than  I  ever  ust  to  be! 
Callin'  back  last  Summer,  say,— 
Don't  seem  hardly  past  away— 
With  night  closin'  in,  and  all 
S'  lonesome-like  in  the  dewfall: 
Bats— ad-drat  their  ugly  muggs!— 
Flicker'n'  by;  and  lightnin'-bugs 
156 


WHAT  CHRIS'MAS  FETCHED  THE  WIGGINSES 

Huckster'n'  roun'  the  airly  night 
Little  sickly  gasps  o'  light;— 
Whippoorwills,  like  all  possess'd, 
Moanin'  out  their  mournfullest;— 
Frogs  and  katydids  and  things 
Jes  clubs  in  and  sings  and  sings 
Their  ding-dangdest  /—Stock's  all  fed, 
And  Pap's  warshed  his  feet  fer  bed;— 
Mother  and  the  girls  all  down 
At  the  milk-shed,  foolin'  roun'— 
No  wunder  'at  I  git  blue, 
And  lite  out— and  so  would  you! 
I  cain't  stay  aroun'  no  place 
Whur  they  hain't  no  livin'  face:— 
'Crost  the  fields  and  thue  the  gaps 
Of  the  hills  they's  friends,  perhaps, 
Waitin'  somers,  'at  kin  be 
Kindo'  comfertin'  to  me! 

Neighbors  all  is  plenty  good, 
Scattered  thue  this  neighberhood; 
Yit,  of  all,  I  like  to  jes 
Drap  in  on  the  Wigginses.— 
Old  man,  and  old  lady  too, 
Tear-like,  makes  so  much  o'  you— 
157 


WHAT  CHRIS'MAS   FETCHED  THE  WIGGINSES 

Least,  they've  allus  pampered  me 
Like  one  of  the  fambily.— 
The  boys,  too,  's  all  thataway — 
Want  you  jes  to  come  and  stay; — 
Price,  and  Chape,  and  Mandaville, 
Poke,  Chasteen,  and  "Catfish  Bill"— 
Poke's  the  runt  of  all  the  rest, 
But  he's  jes  the  beatin'est 
Little  schemer,  fer  fourteen, 
Anybody  ever  seen!— 
"  Like  his  namesake,"  old  man  claims, 
"  Jeems  K.  Poke,  the  first  o'  names! 
Full  o'  tricks  and  jokes— and  you 
Never  know  what  Poke's  go'  do!" 
Genius,  too,  that-air  boy  is, 
With  them  awk'ard  hands  o'  his: 
Gits  this  blame'  pokeberry-juice, 
Er  some  stuff,  fer  ink— and  goose- 
Quill  pen-p'ints:  And  then  he'll  draw 
Dogdest  pictures  yewer  saw!  — 
Jes  make  deers  and  eagles  good 
As  a  writin'-teacher  could! 
Then  they's  two  twin  boys  they've  riz 
Of  old  Coonrod  Wigginses 
'At's  deceast— and  glad  of  it, 
'Cause  his  widder's  livin'  yit! 
158 


WHAT  CHRIS'MAS  FETCHED  THE  W1GGINSES 

'Course  the  boys  is  mostly  jes 
Why  I  go  to  Wigginses'.— 
Though  Melviney,  sometimes,  she 
Gits  her  slate  and  algebry 
And  jes  sets  there  cipher'n'  thue 
Sums  old  Ray  hisse'f  cain't  do!— 
Jes  sets  there,  and  tilts  her  chair 
Forreds  tel,  'pear-like,  her  hair 
Jes  spills  in  her  lap— and  then 
She  jes  dips  it  up  again 
With  her  hands,  as  white,  I  swan, 
As  the  apern  she's  got  on! 


Talk  o'  hospitality!— 
Go  to  Wigginses'  with  me— 
Overhet,  or  froze  plum  thue, 
You'll  find  welcome  waitin'  you:— 
Th'ow  out  yer  tobacker  'fore 
You  set  foot  acrost  that  floor, — 
"  Got  to  eat  whatever's  set— 
Got  to  drink  whatever's  wet!" 
Old  man's  sentimuns— them's  his— 
And  means  jes  the  best  they  is! 
Then  he  lights  his  pipe;  and  she, 
The  old  lady,  presen'ly 
158 


WHAT  CHRIS'MAS   FETCHED  THE  WIGGINSES 

She  lights  hern;  and  Chape  and  Poke.— 
I  hain't  got  none,  ner  don't  smoke,— 
(In  the  crick  afore  their  door— 
Sorto'  so's  'at  I'd  be  shore— 
Drownded  mine  one  night  and  says 
"  I  won't  smoke  at  Wiggenses' !  ") 
Price  he's  mostly  talkin'  'bout 
Politics,  and  "thieves  turned  out" — 
What  he's  go'  to  be,  ef  he 
Ever  "gits  there"— and  "we'll  see!"— 
Poke  he  'lows  they's  blame'  few  men 
Go'  to  hold  their  breath  tel  then! 
Then  Melviney  smiles,  as  she 
Goes  on  with  her  algebry, 
And  the  clouds  clear,  and  the  room's 
Sweeter  'n  crabapple-blooms! 
(That  Melviney,  she'  got  some 
Most  surprisin'  ways,  i  gum!— 
Don't  'pear-like  she  ever  says 
Nothin',  yit  you'll  listen  jes 
Like  she  was  a-talkin',  and 
Half-way  seem  to  understand, 
But  not  quite,— Poke  does,  I  know, 
'Cause  he  good  as  told  me  so,— 
Poke's  her  favo-rite;  and  he— 
That  is,  confidentially— 
160 


WHAT  CHRIS'MAS   FETCHED  THE  WIGGINSES 

He's  my  favo-rite— and  I 

Got  my  whurfore  and  my  why!) 


I  hain't  never  be'n  no  hand 
Much  at  talkin',  understand, 
But  they's  thoughts  o'  mine  'at's  jes 
Jealous  o'  them  Wigginses!— 
Gift  o'  talkin'  's  what  they'  got, 
Whuther  they  want  to  er  not. — 
F'r  instunce,  start  the  old  man  on 
Huntin'-scrapes,  'fore  game  was  gone, 
'Way  back  in  the  Forties,  when 
Bears  stold  pigs  right  out  the  pen, 
Er  went  waltzin'  'crost  the  farm 
With  a  beehive  on  their  arm! — 
And— sir,  ping!  the  old  man's  gun 
Has  plumped  over  many  a  one, 
Firm'  at  him  from  afore 
That-air  very  cabin  door! 
Yes— and  painters,  prowlin'  'bout, 
Allus  darkest  nights.— Lay  out 
Clost  yer  cattle.— Great,  big  red 
Eyes  a-blazin'  in  their  head, 
Glitter'n'  'long  the  timber-line — 
Shine  out  some,  and  then  im-shine, 
161 


WHAT  CHRIS'MAS   FETCHED   THE   WIGGINSES 

And  shine  back— Then,  stiddy!  whizz! 
'N'  there  yer  Mr.  Painter  is 
With  a  hole  bored  spang  between 
Them-air  eyes!  .  .  .  Er  start  Chasteen, 
Say,  on  blooded  racin'-stock, 
Ef  you  want  to  hear  him  talk; 
Er  tobacker— how  to  raise, 
Store,  and  k-yore  it,  so's  she  pays.  .  .  . 
The  old  lady— and  she'll  cote 
Scriptur'  tel  she'll  git  yer  vote! 
Prove  to  you  'at  wrong  is  right, 
Jes  as  plain  as  black  is  white: 
Prove  when  you're  asleep  in  bed 
You're  a-standin'  on  yer  head, 
And  yer  train  'at's  goin'  West, 
'S  goin'  East  its  level  best; 
And  when  bees  dies,  it's  their  wings 
Wears  out— And  a  thousan'  things! 
And  the  boys  is  "  chips,"  you  know, 
"Off  the  old  block  "-So  I  go 
To  the  Wigginses',  'cause— jes 
'Cause  I  like  the  Wigginses— 
Even  ef  Melviney  she 
Hardly  'pears  to  notice  me! 
162 


WHAT  CHRIS'MAS   FETCHED  THE  W1GGINSES 

Rid  to  Chinkypin  this  week— 
Yisterd'y.— No  snow  to  speak 
Of,  and  didn't  have  no  sleigh 
Anyhow;  so,  as  I  say, 
I  rid  in— and  froze  one  ear 
And  both  heels— and  I  don't  keer!— 
"  Mother  and  the  girls  kin  jes 
Bother  'bout  their  Chris'mases 
Next  time  fer  their se'v's,  i  jack!" 
Thinks-says-I,  a-startin'  back, — 
Whole  durn  meal-bag  full  of  things 
Wropped  in  paper  sacks,  and  strings 
Liable  to  snap  their  holt 
Jes  at  any  little  jolt! 
That  in  front  o'  me,  and  wind 
With  nicks  in  it,  'at  jes  skinned 
Me  alive! — I'm  here  to  say 
Nine  mile'  hossback  thataway 
Would  'a'  walked  my  log!    But,  as 
Somepin'  allus  comes  to  pass, 
As  I  topped  old  Guthrie's  hill, 
Saw  a  buggy,  front  the  Still, 
P'inted  home'ards,  and  a  thin 
Little  chap  jes  climbin'  in. 
163 


WHAT  CHRIS'MAS   FETCHED  THE  WIGG1NSES 

Six  more  minutes  I  were  there 

On  the  groun's!— And  'course  it  were— 

It  were  little  Poke— and  he 

Nearly  fainted  to  see  me!— 

"You  be'n  in  to  Chinky,  too?" 

"  Yes;  and  go'  ride  back  with  you," 

I-says-I.    He  he'pped  me  find 

Room  fer  my  things  in  behind — 

Stript  my  hoss's  reins  down,  and 

Putt  his  mitt'  on  the  right  hand 

So's  to  lead— "Pile  in!"  says  he, 

"But  you've  struck  pore  company!" 

Noticed  he  was  pale— looked  sick, 

Kindo'-like,  and  had  a  quick 

Way  o'  flickin'  them-air  eyes 

0'  his  roun'  'at  didn't  size 

Up  right  with  his  usual  style — 

S'  I,  "  You  well  ?  "    He  tried  to  smile, 

But  his  chin  shuck  and  tears  come. — 

"I've  run  'Viney  'way  from  home!" 


Don't  know  jes  what  all  occurred 
Next  ten  seconds— Nary  word, 
But  my  heart  jes  drapt,  stobbed  thue, 
And  whirlt  over  and  come  to.— 
164 


WHAT  CHRIS'MAS  FETCHED  THE  WIGGINSES 

Wrenched  a  big  quart-bottle  from 
That  fool-boy!— and  cut  my  thumb 
On  his  little  fiste-teeth— helt 
Him  snug  in  one  arm,  and  felt 
That-air  little  heart  o'  his 
Churn  the  blood  o'  Wigginses 
Into  that  old  bead  'at  spun 
Roun'  her,  spilt  at  Lexington! 
His  k'niptions,  like  enough, 
He'pped  us  both,— though  it  was  rough- 
Rough  on  him,  and  rougher  on 
Me  when,  last  his  nerve  was  gone 
And  he  laid  there  still,  his  face 
Fishin'  fer  some  hidin'-place 
Jes  a  leetle  lower  down 
In  my  breast  than  he'd  yit  foun'! 
Last  I  kindo'  soothed  him,  so's 
He  could  talk.— And  what  you  s'pose 
Them-air  revelations  of 
Poke's  was?  .  .  .  He'd  be'n  writin'  love- 
Letters  to  Melviney,  and 
Givin'  her  to  understand 
They  was  from  "  a  young  man  who 
Loved  her,"  and— "the  violet's  blue 
'N'  sugar's  sweet"— and  Lord  knows  what! 
Tel,  'peared-like,  Melviney  got 
165 


WHAT  CHRIS'MAS  FETCHED  THE  WIGGINSES 

S'  interested  in  "  the  young 
Man,"  Poke  lie  says,  'at  she  brung 
A*  answer  onc't  f  er  him  to  take, 
Statin'  "  she'd  die  f  er  his  sake," 
And  writ  fifty  x's  "  f  er 
Love-kisses  fer  him  from  her!" .  .  . 
I  was  standin'  in  the  road 
By  the  buggy,  all  I  knowed 
When  Poke  got  that  fur.— "That's  why," 
Poke  says,  "  I  'fessed  up  the  lie— 
Had  to— 'cause  I  see,"  says  he, 
"'Viney  was  in  airnest— she 
Cried,  too,  when  I  told  her.— Then 
She  swore  me,  and  smiled  again, 
And  got  Pap  and  Mother  to 
Let  me  hitch  and  drive  her  thue 
Into  Chinkypin,  to  be 
At  Aunt  'Rindy's  Chris'mas-tree— 
That's  to-night."    Says  I,  "  Poke— durn 
Your  lyin'  soul!— 's  that  beau  o'  hern— 
That— she— loves— Does  he  live  in 
That  hell-hole  o'  Chinkypin?" 
"  No,"  says  Poke,  "  er  'Viney  would 
Went  some  other  neighborhood." 
"Who  is  the  blame'  whelp?"  says  I. 
"  Promised  'Viney,  hope  I'd  die 
16 


WHAT  CHRIS'MAS   FETCHED  THE  W1GGINSES 

Ef  I  ever  told!"  says  Poke, 
Pittiful  and  jes  heartbroke'— 
"  'Sides  that's  why  she  left  the  place, — 
'  She  cain't  look  him  in  the  face 
Now  no  more  on  earth!'  she  says."— 
And  the  child  broke  down  and  jes 
Sobbed!  .  .  .  Says  I,  "Poke,  I  p'tend 
T  be  your  friend,  and  your  Pap's  friend, 
And  your  Mother's  friend,  and  all 
The  boys'  friend,  little,  large  and  small— 
The  whole  fambily's  friend — and  you 
Know  that  means  Melviney,  too. — 
Now— you  hursh  yer  troublin'!— I'm 
Go'  to  he'p  friends  ever'  time— 
On'y  in  this  case,  you  got 
To  he'p  me— and,  like  as  not, 
I  kin  he'p  Melviney  then, 
And  we'll  have  her  home  again. 
And  now,  Poke,  with  your  consent, 
I'm  go'  go  to  that-air  gent 
She's  in  love  with,  and  confer 
With  him  on  his  views  o'  her.— 
Blast  him!  give  the  man  some  show.— 
Who  is  he?— I'm  go'  to  know!" 
Somepin'  struck  the  little  chap 
Funny,  'peared-like  —Give  a  slap 
167 


WHAT  CHRIS'MAS  FETCHED  THE  WIGGINSES 

On  his  leg— laughed  thue  the  dew 
In  his  eyes,  and  says:  "It's  you!" 

Yes,  and— 'cordin'  to  the  last 
Love-letters  of  ours  'at  passed 
Thue  his  hands— we  was  to  be 
Married  Chris'mas.— "  Gee-mun-7iee  / 
Poke,"  says  I,  "  it's  suddent—yit 
We  kin  make  it!    You're  to  git 
Up  to-morry,  say,  'bout  three— 
Tell  your  folks  you're  go'  with  me:— 
We'll  hitch  up,  and  jes  drive  in 
'N'  take  the  town  o'  Chinkypin!" 


168 


GQ   WINTER! 

Go,  Winter!    Go  thy  ways!    We  want  again 
The  twitter  of  the  bluebird  and  the  wren; 
Leaves  ever  greener  growing,  and  the  shine 
Of  Summer's  sun— not  thine. — 

Thy  sun,  which  mocks  our  need  of  warmth  and  love 
And  all  the  heartening  fervencies  thereof 
It  scarce  hath  heat  enow  to  warm  our  thin 
Pathetic  yearnings  in. 

So  get  thee  from  us!    We  are  cold,  God  wot, 
Even  as  thou  art.— We  remember  not 
How  blithe  we  hailed  thy  coming.— That  was  0 
Too  long— too  long  ago! 

Get  from  us  utterly!    Ho!  Summer  then 
Shall  spread  her  grasses  where  thy  snows  have  been, 
And  thy  last  icy  footprint  melt  and  mould 
In  her  first  marigold. 
169 


ELIZABETH 

May  1,  1891 


ELIZABETH!    Elizabeth! 
The  first  May-morning  whispereth 
Thy  gentle  name  in  every  breeze 
That  lispeth  through  the  young-leaved  trees, 
New  raimented  in  white  and  green 
Of  bloom  and  leaf  to  crown  thee  queen;— 
And,  as  in  odorous  chorus,  all 
The  orchard-blossoms  sweetly  call 
Even  as  a  singing  voice  that  saith, 
Elizabeth!    Elizabeth! 

n 

Elizabeth!    Lo,  lily-fair, 
In  deep,  cool  shadows  of  thy  hair, 
Thy  face  maintaineth  its  repose. — 
Is  it,  0  sister  of  the  rose, 
170 


ELIZABETH 

So  better,  sweeter,  blooming  thus 
Than  in  this  briery  world  with  us?— 

Where  frost  o'ertaketh,  and  the  breath 

Of  biting  winter  harrieth 
With  sleeted  rains  and  blighting  snows 
All  fairest  blooms— Elizabeth! 

ra 

Nay,  then!— So  reign,  Elizabeth, 
Crowned,  in  thy  May-day  realm  of  death! 
Put  forth  the  sceptre  of  thy  love 
In  every  star-tipped  blossom  of 
The  grassy  dais  of  thy  throne! 
Sadder  are  we,  thus  left  alone, 
But  gladder  they  that  thrill  to  see 
Thy  mother's  rapture,  greeting  thee. 
Bereaved  are  we  by  life— not  death- 
Elizabeth!    Elizabeth! 


171 


SLEEP 

ORPHANED,  I  cry  to  thee: 
Sweet  Sleep!    0  kneel  and  be 
A  mother  unto  me! 

Calm  thou  my  childish  fears: 
Fold— fold  mine  eyelids  to,  all  tenderly, 
And  dry  my  tears. 

Come,  Sleep,  all  drowsy-eyed 
And  faint  with  languor,— slide 
Thy  dim  face  down  beside 

Mine  own,  and  let  me  rest 
And  nestle  in  thy  heart,  and  there  abide, 
A  favored  guest. 

Good  night  to  every  care, 
And  shadow  of  despair! 
Good  night  to  all  things  where 

Within  is  no  delight!— 
Sleep  opens  her  dark  arms,  and,  swooning 

there, 

I  sob:  Good  night— good  night! 
172 


DAN  PAINE 

OLD  friend  of  mine,  whose  chiming  name 

Has  been  the  burthen  of  a  rhyme 
Within  my  heart  since  first  I  came 
To  know  thee  in  thy  mellow  prime: 
With  warm  emotions  in  my  breast 
That  can  but  coldly  be  expressed, 
And  hopes  and  wishes  wild  and  vain, 
I  reach  my  hand  to  thee,  Dan  Paine. 

In  fancy,  as  I  sit  alone 

In  gloomy  fellowship  with  care, 
I  hear  again  thy  cheery  tone, 
And  wheel  for  thee  an  easy-chair; 
And  from  my  hand  the  pencil  falls— 
My  book  upon  the  carpet  sprawls, 
As  eager  soul  and  heart  and  brain 
Leap  up  to  welcome  thee,  Dan  Paine. 
173 


DAN   PAINE 

A  something  gentle  in  thy  mien, 

A  something  tender  in  thy  voice, 
Has  made  my  trouble  so  serene, 
I  can  but  weep,  from  very  choice. 
And  even  then  my  tears,  I  guess, 
Hold  more  of  sweet  than  bitterness, 
And  more  of  gleaming  shine  than  rain, 
Because  of  thy  bright  smile,  Dan  Paine. 

The  wrinkles  that  the  years  have  spun 
And  tangled  round  thy  tawny  face, 
Are  kinked  with  laughter,  every  one, 
And  fashioned  in  a  mirthful  grace. 
And  though  the  twinkle  of  thine  eyes 
Is  keen  as  frost  when  Summer  dies, 
It  cannot  long  as  frost  remain 
While  thy  warm  soul  shines  out,  Dan  Paine. 

And  so  I  drain  a  health  to  thee:— 

May  merry  Joy  and  jolly  Mirth 
Like  children  clamber  on  thy  knee, 
And  ride  thee  round  the  happy  earth! 
And  when,  at  last,  the  hand  of  Fate 
Shall  lift  the  latch  of  Canaan's  gate, 
And  usher  me  in  thy  domain, 
Smile  on  me  just  as  now,  Dan  Paine. 
174 


OLD  WINTERS  ON  THE   FARM 

I  HAVE  jest  about  decided 
It  'ud  keep  a  town-boy  hoppin' 
Fer  to  work  all  winter,  choppin' 

Per  a'  old  fireplace,  like  /  did! 

Lawz!  them  old  times  wuz  contrairy!— 
Blame*  backbone  o'  winter,  'peared-like, 
Wouldn't  break!— and  I  wuz  skeerd-like 

Clean  on  into  Feb'uary  ! 

Nothin'  ever  made  me  madder 

Than  fer  Pap  to  stomp  in,  layin' 

On  a'  extry  forestick,  sayin', 

"  Groun'-hog's  out  and  seed  his  shadder! " 


175 


AT  UTTER  LOAF 


AN  afternoon  as  ripe  with  heat 

As  might  the  golden  pippin  be 
With  mellowness  if  at  my  feet 

It  dropped  now  from  the  apple-tree 

My  hammock  swings  in  lazily. 

II 

The  boughs  about  me  spread  a  shade 

That  shields  me  from  the  sun,  but  weaves 
With  breezy  shuttles  through  the  leaves 

Blue  rifts  of  skies,  to  gleam  and  fade 
Upon  the  eyes  that  only  see 
Just  of  themselves,  all  drowsily* 

in 

Above  me  drifts  the  fallen  skein 

Of  some  tired  spider,  looped  and  blown, 
As  fragile  as  a  strand  of  rain, 
176 


AT  UTTER  LOAF 

Across  the  air,  and  upward  thrown 
By  breaths  of  hay-fields  newly  mown— 
So  glimmering  it  is  and  fine, 
I  doubt  these  drowsy  eyes  of  mine. 

IV 

Far-off  and  faint  as  voices  pent 

In  mines,  and  heard  from  underground, 
Come  murmurs  as  of  discontent, 

And  clamorings  of  sullen  sound 
The  city  sends  me,  as,  I  guess, 
To  vex  me,  though  they  do  but  bless 
Me  in  my  drowsy  fastnesses. 


I  have  no  care.    I  only  know 

My  hammock  hides  and  holds  me  here 

In  lands  of  shade  a  prisoner: 
While  lazily  the  breezes  blow 

Light  leaves  of  sunshine  over  me, 
And  back  and  forth  and  to  and  fro 

I  swing,  enwrapped  in  some  hushed  glee, 

Smiling  at  all  things  drowsily. 

177 


A   LOUNGER 

HE  leaned  against  a  lamp-post,  lost 

In  some  mysterious  reverie: 
His  head  was  bowed;  his  arms  were  crossed; 

He  yawned,  and  glanced  evasively: 
Uncrossed  his  arms,  and  slowly  put 

Them  back  again,  and  scratched  his  side- 
Shifted  his  weight  from  foot  to  foot, 

And  gazed  out  no-ward,  idle-eyed. 

Grotesque  of  form  and  face  and  dress, 
And  picturesque  in  every  way— 
A  figure  that  from  day  to  day 

Drooped  with  a  limper  laziness; 
A  figure  such  as  artists  lean, 
In  pictures  where  distress  is  seen, 

Against  low  hovels  where  we  guess 
No  happiness  has  ever  been. 


178 


A  SONG  OF  LONG  AGO 

A  SONG  of  Long  Ago: 
Sing  it  lightly— sing  it  low- 
Sing  it  softly— like  the  lisping  of  the  lips 

we  used  to  know 
When  our  baby-laughter  spilled 
From  the  glad  hearts  ever  filled 
With  music  blithe  as  robin  ever  trilled! 

Let  the  fragrant  summer  breeze, 

And  the  leaves  of  locust-trees, 

And  the  apple-buds  and  -blossoms,  and  the 

wings  of  honey-bees, 
All  palpitate  with  glee, 
Till  the  happy  harmony 
Brings  back  each  childish  joy  to  you  and  me. 

Let  the  eyes  of  fancy  turn 
Where  the  tumbled  pippins  burn 
Like  embers  in  the  orchard's  lap  of  tangled 
grass  and  fern,— 
179 


A  SONG  OF  LONG  AGO 

There  let  the  old  path  wind 

In  and  out,  and  on  behind 

The  cider-press  that  chuckles  as  we  grind. 

Blend  in  the  song  the  moan 

Of  the  dove  that  grieves  alone, 

And  the  wild  whir  of  the  locust,  and  the 

bumble's  drowsy  drone; 
And  the  low  of  cows  that  call 
Through  the  pasture-bars  when  all 
The  landscape  fades  away  at  evenfall. 

Then,  far  away  and  clear, 

Through  the  dusky  atmosphere, 

Let  the  wailing  of  the  killdee  be  the  only 

sound  we  hear: 
0  sad  and  sweet  and  low 
As  the  memory  may  know 
Is  the  glad-pathetic  song  of  Long  Ago! 


180 


THE  CHANT  OF  THE  CROSS-BEARING 
CHILD 

I  BEAR  dis  cross  dis  many  a  mile. 
0  de  cross-bearin'  chile— 
De  cross-bearin'  chile! 

I  bear  dis  cross  'long  many  a  road 
Wha'  de  pink  ain't  bloom'  an'  de  grass  done  mowed. 
0  de  cross-bearin'  chile— 
De  cross-bearin'  chile! 

Hit's  on  my  conscience  all  dese  days 
Fo'  ter  bear  de  cross  'ut  de  good  Lord  lays 
On  my  po'  soul,  an'  ter  lif  my  praise. 
0  de  cross-bearin'  chile — 
De  cross-bearin'  chile! 

I's  nigh-'bout  weak  ez  I  mos*  kin  be, 
Yit  de  Marstah  call  an'  He  say,—"  You's  free 
181 


THE  CHANT  OF  THE  CROSS-BEARING  CHILD 

Fo'  ter  'cept  dis  cross,  an'  ter  cringe  yo'  knee 
To  no  n'er  man  in  de  worl'  but  Me!" 
0  de  cross-bearin'  chile— 
De  cross-bearin'  chile! 

Says  you  guess  wrong,  ef  I  let  you  guess- 
Says  you  'spec'  mo',  an'-a  you  git  less:— 
Says  you  go  eas',  says  you  go  wes', 
An'  whense  you  fine  de  road  'ut  you  like  bes* 
You  betteh  take  ch'ice  er  any  er  de  res'! 
0  de  cross-bearin'  chile— 
De  cross-bearin'  chile! 

He  build  my  feet,  an'  He  fix  de  signs 
Dat  de  shoe  hit  pinch  an*  de  shoe  hit  bines 
Ef  I  on'y  Van  eights  an'-a  wanter  w'ah  nines; 
I  hone  fo'  de  rain,  an'  de  sun  hit  shines, 
An'  whilse  I  hunt  de  sun,  hit's  de  rain  I  fines.  - 
0-a  trim  my  lamp,  an'-a  gyrd  my  lines! 
0  de  cross-bearin'  chile— 
De  cross-bearin*  chile! 

I  wade  de  wet,  an'  I  walk  de  dry: 
I  done  tromp  long,  an'  I  done  clim'  high; 
An'  I  pilgrim  on  ter  de  jasper  sky, 
182 


THE  CHANT  OF  THE  CROSS-BEARING  CHILD 

An'  I  taken  de  resk  f  o'  ter  cas'  my  eye 
Wha'  de  Gate  swing  wide  an'  de  Lord  draw  nigh, 
An'  de  Trump  hit  blow,  an'  I  hear  de  cry,— 
"You  lay  dat  cross  down  by  an'  by!— 
0  de  Cross-bearin'  Chile— 
De  Cross-bearin'  Chile! " 


183 


THANKSGIVING 

LET  us  be  thankful— not  only  because 
Since  last  our  universal  thanks  were  told 

We  have  grown  greater  in  the  world's  applause, 
And  fortune's  newer  smiles  surpass  the  old— 

But  thankful  for  all  things  that  come  as  alms 
From  out  the  open  hand  of  Providence:— 

The  winter  clouds  and  storms— the  summer  calms— 
The  sleepless  dread— the  drowse  of  indolence. 

Let  us  be  thankful— thankful  for  the  prayers 
Whose  gracious  answers  were  long,  long  delayed, 

That  they  might  fall  upon  us  unawares, 
And  bless  us,  as  in  greater  need  we  prayed. 

Let  us  be  thankful  for  the  loyal  hand 
That  love  held  out  in  welcome  to  our  own, 

When  love  and  only  love  could  understand 
The  need  of  touches  we  had  never  known. 
184 


THANKSGIVING 

Let  us  be  thankful  for  the  longing  eyes 
That  gave  their  secret  to  us  as  they  wept, 

Yet  in  return  found,  with  a  sweet  surprise, 
Love's  touch  upon  their  lids,  and,  smiling,  slept. 

And  let  us,  too,  be  thankful  that  the  tears 
Of  sorrow  have  not  all  been  drained  away, 

That  through  them  still,  for  all  the  coming  years, 
We  may  look  on  the  dead  face  of  To-day. 


185 


AUTUMN 

As  a  harvester,  at  dusk, 
Faring  down  some  woody  trail 
Leading  homeward  through  the  musk 
Of  May-apple  and  pawpaw, 
Hazel-bush,  and  spice  and  haw,— 
So  comes  Autumn,  swart  and  hale, 
Drooped  of  frame  and  slow  of  stride, 
But  withal  an  air  of  pride 
Looming  up  in  stature  far 
Higher  than  his  shoulders  are; 
Weary  both  in  arm  and  limb, 
Yet  the  wholesome  heart  of  him 
Sheer  at  rest  and  satisfied. 

Greet  him  as  with  glee  of  drums 
And  glad  cymbals,  as  he  comes! 
Robe  him  fair,  0  Rain  and  Shine! 
He  the  Emperor— the  King- 
Royal  lord  of  everything 
186 


AUTUMN 

Sagging  Plenty's  granary  floors 
And  out-bulging  all  her  doors; 
He  the  god  of  corn  and  wine, 
Honey,  milk,  and  fruit  and  oil- 
Lord  of  feast,  as  lord  of  toil- 
Jocund  host  of  yours  and  mine! 

Ho!  the  revel  of  his  laugh!— 
Half  is  sound  of  winds,  and  half 
Roar  of  ruddy  blazes  drawn 
Up  the  throats  of  chimneys  wide, 
Circling  which,  from  side  to  side, 
Faces— lit  as  by  the  Dawn, 
With  her  highest  tintings  on 
Tip  of  nose,  and  cheek,  and  chin- 
Smile  at  some  old  fairy  tale 
Of  enchanted  lovers,  in 
Silken  gown  and  coat  of  mail, 
With  a  retinue  of  elves 
Merry  as  their  very  selves, 
Trooping  ever,  hand  in  hand, 
Down  the  dales  of  Wonderland. 

Then  the  glory  of  his  song!— 
Lifting  up  his  dreamy  eyes- 
Singing  haze  across  the  skies; 
187 


AUTUMN 

Singing  clouds  that  trail  along 
Towering  tops  of  trees  that  seize 
Tufts  of  them  to  stanch  the  breeze; 
Singing  slanted  strands  of  rain 
In  between  the  sky  and  earth, 
For  the  lyre  to  mate  the  mirth 
And  the  might  of  his  refrain: 
Singing  southward-flying  birds 
Down  to  us,  and  afterwards 
Singing  them  to  flight  again: 
Singing  blushes  to  the  cheeks 
Of  the  leaves  upon  the  trees— 
Singing  on  and  changing  these 
Into  pallor,  slowly  wrought, 
Till  the  little,  moaning  creeks 
Bear  them  to  their  last  farewell, 
As  Elaine,  the  lovable, 
Was  borne  down  to  Lancelot.— 
Singing  drip  of  tears,  and  then 
Drying  them  with  smiles  again. 

Singing  apple,  peach  and  grape, 
Into  roundest,  plumpest  shape; 
Rosy  ripeness  to  the  face 
Of  the  pippin;  and  the  grace 

'  188 


AUTUMN 

Of  the  dainty  stamen-tip 

To  the  huge  bulk  of  the  pear, 

Pendent  in  the  green  caress 

Of  the  leaves,  and  glowing  through 

With  the  tawny  laziness 

Of  the  gold  that  Ophir  knew,— 

Haply,  too,  within  its  rind 

Such  a  cleft  as  bees  may  find, 

Bungling  on  it  half  aware, 

And  wherein  to  see  them  sip, 

Fancy  lifts  an  oozy  lip, 

And  the  singer's  falter  there. 

Sweet  as  swallows  swimming  through 
Eddyings  of  dusk  and  dew, 
Singing  happy  scenes  of  home 
Back  to  sight  of  eager  eyes 
That  have  longed  for  them  to  come, 
Till  their  coming  is  surprise 
Uttered  only  by  the  rush 
Of  quick  tears  and  prayerful  hush: 
Singing  on,  in  clearer  key, 
Hearty  palms  of  you  and  me 
Into  grasps  that  tingle  still 
Rapturous,  and  ever  will! 
189 


AUTUMN 

Singing  twank  and  twang  of  strings- 
Trill  of  flute  and  clarinet 
In  a  melody  that  rings 
Like  the  tunes  we  used  to  play, 
And  our  dreams  are  playing  yet! 
Singing  lovers,  long  astray, 
Each  to  each;  and,  sweeter  things,— 
Singing  in  their  marriage-day, 
And  a  banquet  holding  all 
These  delights  for  festival. 


rao 


THE  TWINS 

ONE'S  the  pictur*  of  his  Pa, 

And  the  other  of  her  Ma— 

Jes  the  bossest  pair  o'  babies  'at  a  mortal 

ever  saw! 

And  we  love  'em  as  the  bees 
Loves  the  blossoms  on  the  trees, 
A-ridin'  and  a-rompin'  in  the  breeze! 

One's  got  her  Mammy's  eyes- 
Soft  and  blue  as  Apurl-skies— 
With  the  same  sort  of  a  smile,  like— Yes,  and 

mouth  about  her  size, — 
Dimples,  too,  in  cheek  and  chin, 
'At  my  lips  jes  wallers  in, 
A-goin'  to  work,  er  gittin'  home  ag'in. 

And  the  other— Well,  they  say 
That  he's  got  his  Daddy's  way 
191 


THE  TWINS 

0'  bein'  ruther  soberfied.,  er  ruther  extry 

gay,- 

That  he  eether  cries  his  best, 
Er  he  laughs  his  howlin'est— 
Like  all  he  lacked  was  buttons  and  a  vest! 

Look  at  her  !— and  look  at  him  !— 

Talk  about  yer  "Cheru-fam/" 

Roll  'em  up  in  dreams  together,  rosy  arm  and 

chubby  limb! 
0  we  love  'em  as  the  bees 
Loves  the  blossoms  on  the  trees, 
A-ridin'  and  a-rompin'  in  the  breeze! 


192 


BEDOUIN 

0  LOVE  is  like  an  untamed  steed  I— 
So  hot  of  heart  and  wild  of  speed, 
And  with  fierce  freedom  so  in  love, 
The  desert  is  not  vast  enough, 
With  all  its  leagues  of  glimmering  sands, 
To  pasture  it!    Ah,  that  my  hands 
Were  more  than  human  in  their  strength, 
That  my  deft  lariat  at  length 
Might  safely  noose  this  splendid  thing 
That  so  defies  all  conquering! 
Ho!  but  to  see  it  whirl  and  reel — 
The  sands  spurt  forward— and  to  feel 
The  quivering  tension  of  the  thong 
That  throned  me  high,  with  shriek  and  song! 
To  grapple  tufts  of  tossing  mane— 
To  spurn  it  to  its  feet  again, 
And  then,  sans  saddle,  rein  or  bit, 
To  lash  the  mad  life  out  of  it! 


193 


TUGG  MARTIN 


TUGG  MARTIN'S  tough.— No  doubt  o'  that! 

And  down  there  at 

The  camp  he  come  from  word's  bin  sent 
Advisin'  this-here  Settle-ment 
To  kindo'  humor  Tugg,  and  not 

To  git  him  hot.— 
Jest  pass  his  imperfections  by, 
And  he's  as  good  as  pie! 

II 

They  claim  he's  wanted  back  there.— Yit 
The  officers  they  mostly  quit 

Insistin'  when 

They  notice  Tugg's  so  bactfard,  and 
Sorto'  gives  'em  to  understand 
He'd  ruther  not!— A  Deputy 
(The  slickest  one  you  ever  see!) 
194 


TUGG   MARTIN 


Tackled  him  last— "disguisin'  then," 
As  Tugg  says,  "as  a  gentleman!"— 
You'd  ort'o  hear  Tugg  tell  it!— My! 
I  thought  I'd  die! 


m 


The  way  it  wuz:-  Tugg  and  the  rest 

The  boys  wuz  jest 
A-kindo'  gittin'  thawed  out,  down 
At  "  Guss's  Place,"  fur-end  o'  town, 
One  night,— when,  first  we  knowed, 

Some  feller  rode 
Up  in  a  buggy  at  the  door, 
And  hollered  fer  some  one  to  come 

And  fetch  him  some 
Red-licker  out— And  whirped  and  swore 
That  colt  he  drove  wuz  "  Thompson's"— shore! 


IV 


Guss  went  out,  and  come  in  ag*in 
And  filled  a  pint  and  tuk  it  out— 

Stayed  quite  a  spell— then  peeked  back  in, 
Half-hid-like  where  the  light  wuz  dim, 
195 


TUGG  MARTIN 

And  jieuked  his  head 
At  Tugg  and  said,— 
"Come  out  a  minute— here's  a  gent 
Wants  you  to  take  a  drink  with  him." 


Well— Tugg  laid  down  his  cards  and  went— 
In  fact,  we  all 

Got  up,  you  know, 
Startin '  to  go- 
When  in  reels  Guss  ag'inst  the  wall, 

As  white  as  snow, 
Gaspin', — "  He's  tuk  Tugg  !—  Wher's  my  gun  ?  " 

And-sir,  outside  we  heerd 
The  hoss  snort  and  kick  up  his  heels 

Like  he  wuz  skeerd, 
And  then  the  buggy-wheels 
Scrape— and  then  Tugg's  voice  hollerun,— 
"I'm bested!— Good-bye, fellers!"  .  .  .  Teared 
S'  all-fired  suddent, 
Nobody  couldn't 
Jest  git  it  fixed,— tel  hoss  and  man, 

Buggy  and  Tugg,  off  through  the  dark 
Went  like  the  devil  beatin'  tan- 
Bark! 


TUGG  MARTIN 

VI 

What  could  we  do?  ...  We  filed  back  to 
The  bar:  And  Guss  jest  looked  at  us, 

And  we  looked  back  "  The  same  as  you," 

Still  sayin'  nothin'— And  the  sap 
It  stood  in  every  eye, 

And  every  hat  and  cap 

Went  off,  as  we  teched  glasses  solemnly, 
And  Guss  says-he: 

"Ef  it's  'good-bye'  with  Tugg,  fer  shore,— I  say 
God  bless  him!— Er  ef  they 
Ain't  railly  no  need  to  pray, 

I'm  not  reniggin'— board's  the  play, 

And  here's  God  bless  him,  anyway!" 

vn 

It  must  'a'  bin  an  hour  er  so 
We  all  set  there, 
Talkin'  o'  pore 

Old  Tugg,  you  know, 
'At  never  wuz  ketched  up  before, — 
When— all  slow-like— the  door- 
Knob  turned— and  Tugg  come  shamblin*  in, 
197 


TUGG  MARTIN 

Handcuffed!— 'at's  what  he  wuz,  I  swear!— 

Yit  smilin',  like  he  hadn't  bin 
Away  at  all!    And  when  we  ast  him  where 
The  Deputy  wuz  at,— "I  don't  know  where* 

Tugg  said,— 
''All  /know  is— he's  dead." 


198 


LET  US  FORGET 

LET  us  forget.    What  matters  it  that  we 
Once  reigned  o'er  happy  realms  of  long  ago, 
And  talked  of  love,  and  let  our  voices  low, 

And  ruled  for  some  brief  sessions  royally? 

What  if  we  sung,  or  laughed,  or  wept  maybe? 
It  has  availed  not  anything,  and  so 
Let  it  go  by  that  we  may  better  know 

How  poor  a  thing  is  lost  to  you  and  me. 
But  yesterday  I  kissed  your  lips,  and  yet 

Did  thrill  you  not  enough  to  shake  the  dew 
From  your  drenched  lids— and  missed,  with  no 
regret, 

Your  kiss  shot  back,  with  sharp  breaths  failing 

you: 

And  so,  to-day,  while  our  worn  eyes  are  wet 
With  all  this  waste  of  tears,  let  us  forget! 


199 


JOHN  ALDEN  AND  PERCILLY 

WE  got  up  a  Christmas-doin's 

Last  Christmas  Eve— 
Kindo'  dimonstration 

'At  I  railly  believe 
Give  more  satisfaction — 

Take  it  up  and  down— 
Than  airy  intertainment 

Ever  come  to  town! 

Railly  was  a  theatre— 

That's  what  it  was,— 
But,  bein'  in  the  church,  you  know, 

We  had  a  " Santy  Claus"— 
So's  to  git  the  old  folks 

To  patternize,  you  see, 
And  back  the  institootion  up 

Kindo'  morally. 
200 


JOHN   ALDEN   AND   PERCILLY 

School-teacher  writ  the  thing— 

(Was  a  friend  o'  mine,) 
Got  it  out  o'  Longf  oiler's 

Pome  "  Evangeline  "— 
Er  somers— 'bout  the  Purituns.— 

Anyway,  the  part 
"  John  Alden  "  fell  to  me— 

And  learnt  it  all  by  heart! 

Claircy  was  "  Percilly"— 

(School-teacher  'lowed 
Me  and  her  could  act  them  two 

Best  of  all  the  crowd)— 
Then— blame'  ef  he  didn't 

Git  her  Pap,  i  jing!— 
To  take  the  part  o'  "  Santy  Glaus," 

To  wind  up  the  thing. 

Law!  the  fun  o'  practisun! — 

Was  a  week  er  two 
Me  and  Claircy  didn't  have 

Nothin'  else  to  do!— 
Kep'  us  jes  a-meetin'  round, 

Kindo'  here  and  there, 
Ever*  night  rehearsin'-like, 

And  gaddin'  everVhere! 
201 


JOHN  ALDEN  AND   PERCILLY 

Game  was  wo'th  the  candle,  though!— 

Christmas  Eve  at  last 
Rolled  around.— And  'tendance  jes 

Couldn't  been  su'passed  !— 
Neighbers  from  the  country 

Come  from  Clay  and  Rush— 
Yes,  and  'crost  the  county-line 

Clean  from  Puckerbrush! 

Meetin'-house  jes  trimbled 

As"01dSanty"went 
Round  amongst  the  childern, 

With  their  pepperment 
And  sassafrac  and  wintergreen 

Candy,  and  "  a  ball 
0*  pop-corn,"  the  preacher  'nounced, 

"Free  fer  each  and  all!" 

School-teacher  suddently 

Whispered  in  my  ear,— 
"Guess  I  got  you:— Christmas-gift!— 

Christmas  is  here  !  " 
I  give  him  a  gold  pen, 

And  case  to  hold  the  thing.— 
And  Claircy  whispered,  "  Christmas-gift!" 

And  I  give  her  o  ring. 
202 


JOHN   ALDEN   AND   PERC1LLY 

"And  now,"  says  I,  " jes  watch  me- 

Christmas-gift,"  says  I, 
"7'm  a-goin'  to  git  one— 

' Santas'  comin5  by!"— 
Then  I  rech'  and  grabbed  him: 

And,  as  you'll  infer, 
'Course  I  got  the  old  man's, 

And  he  gimme  her! 


205 


REACH  YOUR   HAND  TO  ME 

REACH  your  hand  to  me,  my  friend, 

With  its  heartiest  caress- 
Sometime  there  will  come  an  end 
To  its  present  faithfulness— 
Sometime  I  may  ask  in  vain 
For  the  touch  of  it  again, 
When  between  us  land  or  sea 
Holds  it  ever  back  from  me. 

Sometime  I  may  need  it  so, 

Groping  somewhere  in  the  night, 
It  will  seem  to  me  as  though 
Just  a  touch,  however  light, 

Would  make  all  the  darkness  day, 
And  along  some  sunny  way 
Lead  me  through  an  April-shower 
Of  my  tears  to  this  fair  hour. 
204 


REACH   YOUR  HAND  TO  ME 

0  the  present  is  too  sweet 

To  go  on  forever  thus! 
Round  the  corner  of  the  street 
Who  can  say  what  waits  for  us? — 

Meeting— greeting,  night  and  day, 
Paring  each  the  selfsame  way— 
Still  somewhere  the  path  must  end. 
Reach  your  hand  to  me,  my  friend! 


205 


THE  ROSE 

IT  tossed  its  head  at  the  wooing  breeze; 

And  the  sun,  like  a  bashful  swain, 
Beamed  on  it  through  the  waving  trees 

With  a  passion  all  in  vain,— 
For  my  rose  laughed  in  a  crimson  glee, 
And  hid  in  the  leaves  in  wait  for  me. 

The  honey-bee  came  there  to  sing 
His  love  through  the  languid  hours, 

And  vaunt  of  his  hives,  as  a  proud  old  king 
Might  boast  of  his  palace-towers: 

But  my  rose  bowed  in  a  mockery, 

And  hid  in  the  leaves  in  wait  for  me. 

The  humming-bird,  like  a  courtier  gay, 
Dipped  down  with  a  dalliant  song, 

And  twanged  his  wings  through  the  roundelay 
Of  love  the  whole  day  long: 

Yet  my  rose  turned  from  his  minstrelsy 

And  hid  in  the  leaves  in  wait  for  me. 
206 


THE  ROSE 

The  firefly  came  in  the  twilight  dim 

My  red,  red  rose  to  woo— 
Till  quenched  was  the  flame  of  love  in  him, 

And  the  light  of  his  lantern  too, 
As  my  rose  wept  with  dewdrops  three 
And  hid  in  the  leaves  in  wait  for  me. 

And  I  said:  I  will  cull  my  own  sweet  rose— 

Some  day  I  will  claim  as  mine 
The  priceless  worth  of  the  flower  that  knows 

No  change,  but  a  bloom  divine— 
The  bloom  of  a  fadeless  constancy 
That  hides  in  the  leaves  in  wait  for  me! 

But  time  passed  by  in  a  strange  disguise, 

And  I  marked  it  not,  but  lay 
In  a  lazy  dream,  with  drowsy  eyes, 

Till  the  summer  slipped  away, 
And  a  chill  wind  sang  in  a  minor  key: 
"Where  is  the  rose  that  waits  for  thee?" 

I  dream  to-day,  o'er  a  purple  stain 

Of  bloom  on  a  withered  stalk, 
Pelted  down  by  the  autumn  rain 

In  the  dust  of  the  garden-walk, 
That  an  Angel-rose  in  the  world  to  be 
Will  hide  in  the  leaves  in  wait  for  me. 
207 


MY  FRIEND 

"HE  is  my  friend,"  I  said,— 
"  Be  patient ! "    Overhead 
The  skies  were  drear  and  dim; 
And  lo!  the  thought  of  him 
Smiled  on  my  heart— and  then 
The  sun  shone  out  again! 

" He  is  my  friend! "    The  words 
Brought  summer  and  the  birds; 
And  all  my  winter-time 
Thawed  into  running  rhyme 
And  rippled  into  song, 
Warm,  tender,  brave,  and  strong. 

And  so  it  sings  to-day. — 
So  may  it  sing  alway! 
Though  waving  grasses  grow 
Between,  and  lilies  blow 
Their  trills  of  perfume  clear 
As  laughter  to  the  ear, 
Let  each  mute  measure  end 
With  "Still  he  is  thy  friend." 
208 


SUSPENSE 

A  WOMAN'S  figure,  on  a  ground  of  night 
Inlaid  with  sallow  stars  that  dimly  stare 
Down  in  the  lonesome  eyes,  uplifted  there 

As  in  vague  hope  some  alien  lance  of  light 

Might  pierce  their  woe.    The  tears  that  blind  her 

sight— 

The  salt  and  bitter  blood  of  her  despair — 
Her  hands  toss  back  through  torrents  of  her  hair 

And  grip  toward  God  with  anguish  infinite. 
And  0  the  carven  mouth,  with  all  its  great 

Intensity  of  longing  frozen  fast 
In  such  a  smile  as  well  may  designate 

The  slowly  murdered  heart,  that,  to  the  last, 
Conceals  each  newer  wound,  and  back  at  Fate 

Throbs  Love's  eternal  lie— "Lo,  I  can  wait!" 


209 


THE  PASSING  OF  A  HEART 

0  TOUCH  me  with  your  hands— 

For  pity's  sake! 

My  brow  throbs  ever  on  with  such  an  ache 
As  only  your  cool  touch  may  take  away; 
And  so,  I  pray 

You,  touch  me  with  your  hands! 

Touch— touch  me  with  your  hands.— 

Smooth  back  the  hair 

You  once  caressed,  and  kissed,  and  called  so  fair 
That  I  did  dream  its  gold  would  wear  alway, 
And  lo,  to-day— 

0  touch  me  with  your  hands! 

Just  touch  me  with  your  hands, 

And  let  them  press 
My  weary  eyelids  with  the  old  caress, 
And  lull  me  till  I  sleep.    Then  go  your  way, 
That  Death  may  say: 

He  touched  her  with  his  hands. 
210 


BY  HER  WHITE   BED 

BY  her  white  bed  I  muse  a  little  space: 
She  fell  asleep— not  very  long  ago,— 
And  yet  the  grass  was  here  and  not  the  snow— 
The  leaf,  the  bud,  the  blossom,  and— her  face!— 
Midsummer's  heaven  above  us,  and  the  grace 
Of  Love's  own  day,  from  dawn  to  afterglow; 
The  fireflies'  glimmering,  and  the  sweet  and  low 
Plaint  of  the  whippoorwills,  and  every  place 
In  thicker  twilight  for  the  roses'  scent. 
Then  night— She  slept— in  such  tranquillity, 
I  walk  atiptoe  still,  nor  dare  to  weep, 
Feeling,  in  all  this  hush,  she  rests  content- 
That  though  God  stood  to  wake  her  for  me,  she 
Would  mutely  plead:  "Nay,  Lord!    Let  him  so 
sleep." 


211 


NEVER  TALK  BACK 

NEVER  talk  back!  sich  things  is  repperhensible; 

A  feller  only  hurts  hisse'f  that  jaws  a  man  that's  hot1, 
In  a  quarrel,  ef  you'll  only  keep  your  mouth  shet  and 

act  sensible, 

The  man  that  does  the  talkin'  '11  git  worsted  every 
shot! 

Never  talk  back  to  a  feller  that's  abusin'  you— 

Jest  let  him  carry  on,  and  rip,  and  snort,  and  swear; 
And  when  he  finds  his  blamin'  and  def  amin'  's  jest 

amusin'  you, 

You've  got  him  clean  kaflummixed,— and  you  want 
to  hold  him  there! 

Never  talk  back,  and  wake  up  the  whole  community 

And  call  a  man  a  liar,  over  Law,  er  Politics.— 
You  can  lift  and  land  him  furder  and  with  gracefuller 

impunity 

With  one  good  jolt  of  silence  than  a  half  a  dozen 
kicks! 

212 


MR.  WHAT'S-HJS-NAME 

THEY  called  him  Mr.  What's-his-names 
Prom  where  he  was,  or  why  he  came, 
Or  when,  or  what  he  found  to  do, 
Nobody  in  the  city  knew. 

He  lived,  it  seemed,  shut  up  alone 

In  a  low  hovel  of  his  own; 

There  cooked  his  meals  and  made  his  bed, 

Careless  of  all  his  neighbors  said. 

His  neighbors,  too,  said  many  things 
Expressive  of  grave  wonderings, 
Since  none  of  them  had  ever  been 
Within  his  doors,  or  peered  therein. 

In  fact,  grown  watchful,  they  became 
Assured  that  Mr.  What's-his-name 
Was  up  to  something  wrong— indeed, 
Small  doubt  of  it,  we  all  agreed. 
213 


MR.  WHAT'S-HIS-NAME 

At  night  were  heard  strange  noises  there, 
When  honest  people  everywhere 
Had  long  retired;  and  his  light 
Was  often  seen  to  burn  all  night. 

He  left  his  house  but  seldom— then 
Would  always  hurry  back  again, 
As  though  he  feared  some  stranger's  knock, 
Finding  him  gone,  might  burst  the  lock. 

Besides,  he  carried,  every  day, 
At  the  one  hour  he  went  away, 
A  basket,  with  the  contents  hid 
Beneath  its  woven  willow  lid. 

And  so  we  grew  to  greatly  blame 
This  wary  Mr.  What's-his-name, 
And  look  on  him  with  such  distrust 
His  actions  seemed  to  sanction  just. 

But  when  he  died— he  died  one  day- 
Dropped  in  the  street  while  on  his  way 
To  that  old  wretched  hut  of  his— 
You'll  think  it  strange— perhaps  it  is— 

But  when  we  lifted  him,  and  past 
The  threshold  of  his  home  at  last, 
214 


MR.  WHAT'S-HIS-NAME 

No  man  of  all  the  crowd  but  stepped 
With  reverence,— ay,  quailed  and  wept! 

What  was  it?    Just  a  shriek  of  pain 
I  pray  to  never  hear  again— 
A  withered  woman,  old  and  bowed, 
That  fell  and  crawled  and  cried  aloud— 

And  kissed  the  dead  man's  matted  hair- 
Lifted  his  face  and  kissed  him  there— 
Called  to  him,  as  she  clutched  his  hand, 
In  words  no  one  could  understand. 

Insane?    Yes.— Well,  we,  searching,  found 
An  unsigned  letter,  in  a  round 
Free  hand,  within  the  dead  man's  breast: 
"Look  to  my  mother— I'm  at  rest. 

"You'll  find  my  money  safely  hid 
Under  the  lining  of  the  lid 
Of  my  work-basket.    It  is  hers, 
And  God  will  bless  her  ministers!" 

And  some  day— though  he  died  unknown— 
If  through  the  City  by  the  Throne 
I  walk,  all  cleansed  of  earthly  shame, 
I'll  ask  for  Mr.  What's-his-name. 
215 


WHEN  AGE  COMES  ON 

WHEN  Age  comes  on! — 

The  deepening  dusk  is  where  the  dawn 

Once  glittered  splendid,  and  the  dew, 
In  honey-drips  from  red  rose-lips, 

Was  kissed  away  by  me  and  you.— 
And  now  across  the  frosty  lawn 
Black  footprints  trail,  and  Age  comes  on— 
And  Age  comes  on! 

And  biting  wild-winds  whistle  through 
Our  tattered  hopes— and  Age  comes  on! 

When  Age  comes  on!— 

0  tide  of  raptures,  long  withdrawn, 

Flow  back  in  summer  floods,  and  fling 
Here  at  our  feet  our  childhood  sweet, 

And  all  the  songs  we  used  to  sing!  .  .  „ 
Old  loves,  old  friends— all  dead  and  gone— 
Our  old  faith  lost— and  Age  comes  on— 
And  Age  comes  on! 

Poor  hearts!  have  we  not  anything 
But  longings  left  when  Age  comes  on? 
216 


ENVOY 

JUST  as  of  old!    The  world  rolls  on  and  on; 
The  day  dies  into  night— night  into  dawn— 
Dawn  into  dusk— through  centuries  untold.— 
Just  as  of  old. 

Time  loiters  not.    The  river  ever  flows, 
Its  brink  or  white  with  blossoms  or  with  snows; 
Its  tide  or  warm  with  spring  or  winter  cold: 
Just  as  of  old. 

Lo!  where  is  the  beginning,  where  the  end 
Of  living,  loving,  longing?    Listen,  friend!— 
God  answers  with  a  silence  of  pure  gold- 
Just  as  of  old. 


217 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


JUN  5     1951 


Form  L-0 
20m-12,  '39(3386) 


2704     Kiley  - 
G82  ~Green~fIelcrs" 
and  running 
brooks . 


JUN5 


PS 

2704 
G82 


000118230    2 


